This is the letter where I explain
how you are a unit of composition.
In a dream, we are riding the Queen
car. It feels like Friday night, passengers
sealed in the foggy promise of potential parties.
You watch a woman wearing red legs
who holds a record crate and a bag with a message.
It reads: I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry Good-bye
For your farewell you filled eight notebooks
with the names of interesting animals.
Humming an old song:
you need me; you’re gone.
If you forgive me for changing seats.
If you forgive me for swearing at the driver.
If you forgive me for carrying my brain
in my head like a glass of black water.
A Siberian Husky slips away from his owner
to sit with me as the drunk man calls out
commands from the front. I can’t believe
But the wolf doesn’t love us. He leaves.
In our sleep, I hear you repeat:
I don’t want to get off
at the same stop