it's all feeling a little thin, love. nothing for it. not dances in the streetlight with our leathers hung on the blue signs that mark avon and miles avenue, not the whispers, not when you hum miles davis and march your clip clop step, not when you kiss my ear/mouth/hands/hair/neck. too thin. cassiopeia is the only constellation i can see, but that's not what's disorienting here under the vines of grapes, the overflung fennel, the egg poppies.
the fifth stanza was maybe for you, just the lull i wanted, the hum of your valved voice. who are you? everything is in past tense, you've decided. taking the long shot on a far off future with a nearby stranger. no one approves.
not right, not right, not yet.

other things i've forgotten. the way i was to cut out cardboard for sending-- the things i was to send. cut and pasted it all away. guard your mailbox, this and other outdated artistry.