Letter by Letter

I knew one day I would send you a letter
like this―
words strung like clouds against the blue,               
a mere note that you would stroke one
thousand times over to the scent of
                             lavender and lucidity.

        Consider the madness of
this place: lights that flicker in delight,
turning nights on silent film―
a landscape of
hunger and blush.

If only you knew how you breathe inside of
me like rainfall, Spring vigor, or wet hands
that
        ex                                             tend
        past the edge of this silent city.

O, you! Yes, you,
you are poetry in the book of
Sullivan. One I do not dare to lie down.