Now is always the season,
a man raising his shoe, a shovel,
a woman turning her head, lifting her hands, running from a
room, or asleep.
The future doesn’t care.
They were there, she no longer is.
Something implacable struck her, larger than his hands. History,
a shift between continents.
Arriving with a large boot print across the body of the envelope,
from his cell and my studio, these awkward, boyish letters.
A staple through each page he sends, as if they could incarcerate
And what permanent weather, you know, for the woman in her
Running all my corridors, headed toward my door,
a torn blouse.
Biting the air, chasing, a man who would be my friend, his shovel
Surely the door is bolted,
the men with the cage soon to reach my friend.