the city gleams in afternoon suns. the aluminum walls of the stellar bank catch

the strange distorted faces of the inter-galactic crowds.

im holding my hat in my hand standing awkwardly at the entrance to their shrine wishing i were near you.

were they like us? i don’t know. how did they die & how did the legend grow?

(a long time ago i thot i knew how this poem would go, how the figures of the saints would emerge. now it’s covered over by my urge to write you what lines i can. the sun is dying. i’ve heard them say it will go nova before the year’s end. i wanted to send you this letter (this poem) but now it’s too late to say anything, too early to have anything to send.)

i wish i could scream your name & you could hear me out there somewhere where our lives are