The softest voice dripped on me tonight
having noticed I always seem to be
heavy, alone, sopping wet, and alright
The nearest place to where I could flee
was the putrid crab shack of insight
where I insist nothing has happened to me
The cool tidal depth of twilight
tows me up a mulberry tree
it strings my spine quite upright
The silent correspondent lost somewhere at sea
I'm still waiting, rapt, for her postcard, despite
knowing we'll never again be three