9/21/78

Dear P:

These trees are no concern

of yours: they flash and flame.

Watching men get dressed

in the morning was my only past-time.

Now I drink tea. It leaves that

silt of success on my tongue.

Have you seen me walking

through the fields? When I run

I don't look back.

I don't look sideways.

I look at the simple clover bending

under me like hearts.

One woman loving limes and

the long drink of cities.

It goes like this: the stove

becomes hotter, all the windows are open.

The moon has dropped behind the trees

and most likely has you

trapped somewhere in bed, struggling

to lift that weight from your chest.

Can you smell the clover? It's no

concern of yours, but I know

how the trees here spit and die.