What he writes me...

Once down the hill - see my river before it gets too low.
Too much thinking what should be done.
Turn left past the burnt out church; head up the washed-out drive.
You'll have to walk up soon.
Come see the garden that you planted;
harvest time went on by unpicked, but the garden remains.
There's a hole in the woods behind the dock.  A foundation for a thing
unbuilt.
We can make love in holes like these.  I think,
about you, maybe more than I should.
I think of the friends that I've told I'm dead, and
all the other times I've lied
about the places I've been since then.  Its all the trouble
of explaining the things I love instead
of them, and you, lying on top of heaps of golden seeds,
beckon me on Halloween, and call out to me through laugh and scream,
in pleasure, pain, and alone in dreams;
here on the ground there's a boiling whistle getting louder each time
you sing.
You get in my eyes and between my teeth.
When you walk, I follow the red dirt under your feet.
Your body is a basket.  You fall apart; you unweave.
You come back together after you leave.  You come in and out, then you
come and sail through
the waves and the caves and the blue breath of you. I want to be in
your body, and there's a mud hole nearby,
just in case we're feeling too dry.  We need to rub the red mud on
 each other from toe up to tip till we're slathered and slip our bones
all betwixt one another; then we must lick the eye lids of each other to
keep from going as blind as the others.