If you and your hands aren’t too busy
twirling your hair or setting dials on clocks or
staring into the spinning washing machine
that you close your eyes and lean into to breathe in
the clean steam rising up from the water that churns,
simmering against the smooth, blue metal;
if you have a moment,
after adding what you know to be far too much water
to the row of anxious ghostflowers in the window box,
who’ve taken to wearing waterwings
and reciting prayers to St. Brendan, that he might
soothe the rising tides with his salty, placid palms;
perhaps you could find the time to send me a letter,
a postcard, a stamp covered with your tiny, uniform script
telling me how you’ve been lately, and more importantly,
how I should be by now,
it being nearly December, and the days not getting
any warmer, despite the heat of the hissing fire
in the wood-stove—also, whether it is okay
that I still eat dinner by candlelight,
mostly alone.