On the Persistence of the Letter as a Form

    Dear murderous world， dear gawking heart，

    I never wrote back to you， not one word

    wrenched itself free of my fog-draped mind

    to dab in ink the day's dull catalog

    of ruin. Take back the ten-speed bike

    which bent like a child's cheap toy

    beneath me. Accept as your own

    the guitar that was smashed over my brother，

    who writes now from jail in Savannah，

    who I cannot begin to answer. Here

    is the beloved pet who died at my feet

    and there， outside my window，

    is where my mother buried it in a coffin

    meant for a newborn. Upon

    my family， raw and vigilant， visit numbness.

    Of numbness I know enough.

    And to you I've now written too much，

    dear cloud of thalidomide，

    dear spoon trembling at the mouth，

    dear marble-eyed doll never answering back.