30 November 1999

Eudora Pro

On 11/30/99, you wrote:

                  >We only speak digitally now,
                                    >signature pixellated in Courier
                  >10 point font, vibrating black
                  >against the screen's bright white, the
                           >cursor blinking; wondering if I
                           >should delete "I love you" above mine.
                  >I don't, and just click on send.
                  >On your last letter, you wrote
                           >"I'll see you soon," knowing you wouldn't,
                                    >so I'll get away with this, knowing I don't.



01 November 1999

Kindergarten Braille

     A lamination
captured the glowing orange 
     leaf safe underneath

     And you dragged the black
wax of a crayon against
     its green paper frame

     creating the hand-
written label, "My Maple."
     Such a fragile thought,

                                             iced in memory
                                        the color of your school bus
                                             rounding the corner

                                             as you waited - your
                                        autumn exhale dissolving
                                             in trees like exhaust,

                                             a bark brown bag lunch
                                        and plastic supply box (with
                                             pencils and crayons,

                                             scissors, Elmer's glue, 
                                        stickers, and five Crayola
                                             markers) held in your hands - 

                                             smearing the meat from
                                        a pumpkin's crushed shell under
                                             your shoe, imagining the smell

                                             of its golden brown
                                        salted seeds in the oven
                                             as through knife cut eyes,

                                             flickering yellow
                                        in a melting candle's flame,
                                             it watched itself die

                    last night. I wish you
               would have taken a piece of
                    it with you to glue

                    next to the dried leaf. 

I remember the smell of 
fall touching the page.