in response to a letter 4 months past due.

i sift through the days
like ash or silt.
panning
spanning? perspectivizing?
nothing much to see.
i know i'm looking for a nothing cause
and a romantic notion all wrapped up.
a fucked up story you only tell
when someone's questioning that merit badge
of scarring
under the right clavicle
next to the place where one sketchy black tattoo ends.
or does it end?
it sinks on down to the gut.
so much like you
in that sinking/sliding
undone doing
that you have when you
call
or cry or
whatever it is that you call revenge.
like crawling back through the ashes
or silt of one thousand last nights'
just to find me
and sink me down with you.