LETTER FROM THE COUNTRY
My brother
what do I do now
with my impulse
to tie our shoes together
and launch them into the wire
the way I think
you think
sublime vistas are conjured
I prepare a curse
to cleanse personal nostalgias
I stand
a bullet on a fence post
to indicate arrival
calling later than usual
your home the last thing
I do not know
apologies
news of the truce
the road back struck
an ineffable silence
where our sympathies
have peace to make
our trails both
converge and run cold
