Today, I sent
a letter in the mail,
described in the autumn
of one habitual life.
A man disguised,
handed me a children’s toy,
carved with ideals of my youth.
It kept spinning, this top
in so many revolutions,
within the words I used to speak,
friends’ left behind indelible,
I understood in psalms.
A reminder in ink stains,
that blotted fingertips.
Solitary river choices
that I smudged around my chin,
later became a bear
and I forgot my child level.
As the stranger departed,
I noticed a scent,
recognised a stance.
Almost called after,
but my lips were reluctant
to confront one distant self.
