what I wrote to her

on the high seas

writing letters to my mom

dipping my quill in thick black ink

trying to make sense of the scene

trying to take an accurate count of the vote

wondering how far I have to travel for an answer

to the mysterious arrangement of ripe apples 

in a pure white bowl

resting on a wooden table

inside a small studio 

atop a low hill of Aix-en-Provence, France.

in what would become unremarkable,

i wrote to her about the whippings

and the rants

and that much would come of my writing

if the sun continued to shine into my eyes

and the doors remained open to the wild winds

blowing across the ocean in many languages.

and the waves did keep stacking,

towering high, piercing my bow,

matting my hair and spraying my thin face:

and in a dream, i saw summer grasses beaten down by charging calvary

near the village of Waterloo,

where horses cried

for the bodies of

victors and the dead 

who forgot their own names

in or out of the saddle.

and i rowed my small boat

during a violent summer storm,

determined to find a safe harbor where none existed.

I was sure i could finish my letter before nightfall,

even as the atmosphere became more threatening,

and my breathing more imprecise.

there was a little bit of poetry in my impressions 

of the world,

and a lot of doubt.

so far, not a drop of hot coffee has been spilled on my neat trousers,

nor have I eaten a speeding bullet with my tongue.

that's partly what i wrote to her.