I Eat Poetry

The sky is overcast
but you sent me a postcard of a moon,
gold slash to light my mailbox, telling me that Manhattan
intoxicates you, and that you'll be needing to remember me
sometime soon.
I'm thinking of invisible wounds
to the tune of loons and snow monsoons,
wondering if you know/does it show
that your name was the first thing I thought about/
the only thing I sought out
when that square cardboard slip
flipped out of my mailbox.
I didn't care that you thought Rum on the rocks
tasted so much better in Soho,
or about your daydreams of stormcrows
in dim grey light
leaving no black plume as a token
of any lies
leaving you suprised
at your loneliness, unbroken.
I was fascinated by your name, black stabbing runes
attached to a honey colored moon
and it becomes the only sign of heaven that I need.