Dear John
What is it that former lovers say to each other
when the night is cold
and memories have blurred
like old cars speeding into the future?
The touch is not the same.
No principle to exalt it.
No agreement to contain it.
No thought to provoke it.
How could we have fought so much?
How could you walk away so easily?
How could I have been so stupid?
Like a mantra those questions
went through my mind
over and over again until alas
the thought construction that produced them
shattered in the face of its own insanity.
And now, without principle to stand for,
agreement to honor,
or ritual to perform,
an openness blows through me
and it is at once
warm as sand in July
and cold as the breath of a snowman.
John Ostlund index