Letter to a Comet
01/26/2007 10:54 a.m.

Letter to a Comet

It's room temperature here from where I'm writing you
closer to inferno than south pole
you're further in the sky than i can imagine
close to someone's conception of immateriality,
though you are pure matter.
I've got nothing on my mind – and no plan – as usual.
Makes it easy to choose words when there aren't any.
What do my letters do when they reach you?
Do you wear snow gloves to read them? But i forgot,
you're cold, ice, debris, and I'm ignorant
tired of my ignorance, being in a spiritual coma,
doing late night push-ups with my eyes.

Eyes are elongated, dead cells, there's
no other tissue like them in the body. If only you
could keep plucking out your tired eyes to grow new ones.
Eyes are comets breaking up in the atmosphere
outside your eyelids. It's funny how tired sayings
can sound new at the right moment, like “I love you”.

How much is the postage again? Don't know
if I used enough or if this'll even get to you