can’t close the window without thinking of you;
your bare breasts in sunshine with a cloud’s length of skin.
I miss it and you, the slender pearl dive of memory.
Emily Dickinson was a lesbian, and so were we. Once.
I will stay quiet, like her, and I will write a letter
with the hands that could never please you.
Your hands, however, influence my poetry
and like my poetry, I am a silent prayer. For you.