To a Woman Looking For Margot
in My Yahoo Junk-Mailbox
O! M was a beauteous dream
melodioso to hum and to shadow
through brambles and such.
A cloud swimming through the goddamn cosmos,
asphalt in a fog, a locomotive in May.
I knew her/ only in spirit. (She loved
And M, O! M. What mystery, what spirit,
what joie. What schwa!
No mail box could hold her.
The tenor of her voice was poignant
as pryamids crumbling in sweet Egyptian sunlight
and sharp, sharp stars.
The moon would be her province.
And I shall not/ trouble you
I hope you find your Margot.
I hum, I hope.
No mail box
could ever ever hold her.