with every change of season
comes a renewed grief,
a blank sky
perfect
in its presentation
of absence;
another letter
written in white ink on white paper,
postmarked yesterday.

even the watermark's translucence
makes the script's invisibility transparent

among the scattered metaphors, the faded
salutation, the unadorned, untouched sheets
of tomorrow, virgin lines spill and keep
alive hope's shallow breathing
in disappearing ink.

the minimalist precision
asks me to be spare
and to
make the most of least.

the same old script of my life
makes a new arrangement,

and when i first opened your non-existent envelopes,
invisible manuscripts caught fire in my palms

now, even with the words we shared
burned to the ground, i still
write and write
toward that dream