The Letters

You never liked to get
The letters that I sent.
But now you've got the gist
Of what my letters meant.

You're reading them again,
The ones you didn't burn.
You press them to your lips,
My pages of concern.

I said there'd been a flood.
I said there's nothing left.
I hoped that you would come.
I gave you my address.

Your story was so long,
The plot was so intense,
It took you years to cross
The lines of self-defence.

The wounded forms appear:
the loss, the full extent;
and simple kindness here,
the solitude of strength.

You walk into my room.
You sit there at my desk,
Begin your letter to
The one who's coming next.