I’VE BROUGHT THIS SUMMER JUST FOR YOU . Your chest’s meadow has dried up You don’t write letters these days There’s a tumult of tears In your tempered letters Your body’s so tender; it makes me Want to cover you with many arms
There is no one else on this summer street, except The postman carrying his bag of strangled letters, And the girl who’s lost her childhood secrets When the strange bird of summer That drinks up all the streams in one swift gulp Arrives quietly, the rocks too come awake Children refuse to play Beneath the sun that daily soaks in blood and rises Inside an empty house, The telephone’s been ringing for a long time now Girls’ eyes are afloat in the haze
In an earlier summer, too hot For trees to stand their ground, You had called my body a live expanse I found, when I awoke from sleep, That the handbag where I had stashed away your kisses And our quarrels stiff with the salt of tears, Had been opened This summer that brings to mind A doused lamp’s acrid smell, I’ve brought along just for you Do write me letters. Do.