Body of a Letter

When you were young,
each whispered touch opened, creaked
as if to swallow all whisper, all candor, wild –
each lick of the tongue and lap on water
the willows’ furry molten crush.
Remember me? All taut and supple,
liquid stories, we smoked under electrical towers.
We began to run and the pavement beneath our feet chalked at sharp angles.
You begin to forget the right things.
You begin to walk at night and
laugh to yourself as you stomp in puddles and
trudge for miles in dry dust,
strip off your ruddy red clothes,
you come off the cliff, far past the rocks
and plunge into