Epistolary

Rivers are larger than creeks are larger than
brooks are larger than runs. The man

you couldn’t get to that unnamed European airport
in time with is not the same man

you loved twenty years ago who would never sing
in front of an audience in a greenhouse. Or anywhere.

That was just a dream. Wouldn’t sing for anyone—not even you,
his precious cargo. He is not the same

man you wish would come out and play again. He would sing
for anyone—everyone. Would rather not

say a word when the music stops. He is not the same
man who wrote you a letter—one. Called you

on the phone—once. Meet me in the City. You could be
still waiting for him outside the bow of the Flat

Iron Building. But he’s not the same. Neither are you.

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