I’m in a phone booth in Saratoga Springs.
The water tastes awful, but very helpful.
You aren’t answering, whatever I’m asking.
I’m asking right now why you aren’t answering.
It’s pleasure, pain, or just love of quiet.
You’re not answering; I’ve got coins for nothing.
I’m going to stamp out my feelings for you,
post them in a letter like a long shaft,
brought to your box by fanjet airlines.
On a plain chair, arms flapping, I’m winging
to that heaven of babies, that stellar
interstellar galaxy of persuasions, those
fine passions eclipsed by sunshine
but now, in the dark, all that we see
and all that we ever wished for, swore for,
lied, and cheated and stole for.
I’m sending you tomorrow the letter of today,
a little dried-up light from far away.