I still write things on paper; spiral notebooks
Come in for their share of abuse.
Thoughts about sports cars at the bottom of crystal lakes.
I tear them out in pieces and then line up the edges.
A nephew patiently explained how to open your attachment:
1.2 million gigabytes? How many trees died of boredom
Because you think of me?
I hope you said something.
No, I still won’t answer the phone. The President might call.
Before this letter becomes insanely long
I’ll say I already know you refine uranium as a hobby,
That you use bacon and eggs to make smiley faces at breakfast.
I am fatigued constantly by my disguises,
Death will penetrate them anyway.
I could print out my dreams.
In fact I do and might use the blank pages
But it seems I’m a pool drained to mud,