She says keep it short by which she means
the long note I once wrote in olive oil
on twenty-pound bond. This oneís a 3x5
painting of daisies whose underside is white
with intimidation. I consider describing
her beautiful hands in quick sweeps
of calligraphy. Which brings to mind Mei-Lin,
a student who once turned in a treatise
on Lisp in a microscopic hand so gorgeous
I graded the way I felt under the Milky Way
in Ada, Oklahoma. My love has a black star
just off her right iris. Itís this kind of thing
I fail to say, apt to wax on the remarkable only
among the recently dead. Her first letter
was penned in a graveyard, lifting me
from the benediction. Her second was a frame
of pressed flowers I never learned the names
of. Iím not good with names, Iím not even good
at separating sounds, the sighs from the sag
of exhaustion. What keeps this logo'd pen
poised over fifteen square inches of silence
is a promise and what lies beneath. Iíve only
seen daisies once in the wild. The wind
was ripping off the petals.