Your Letter in the Mail Despite the Season

You blueprint taste
in a kitchen of solar light
for mouths shaped like stone stacks.
Overfull, fire smoldering,
you ache back or forward to your animal appetite.
No glamour or drama in a content stomach.

Cairns scare migrating game
into their kill-site—
your kill-stroke is delicate and well-delivered.

You got saturated with the tired music
of their changed garments,

a radiant custard of melancholy, or nostalgia,
or doubt, the pleasure of swilling a mixed summer—

perhaps this one or the one before?—
and winter is the smoke haze
between your eyes and the view

and that part we spent under
a canopy of blissish forest,
under the above called overstory,
why and how do you hide there now?

I sweat and walk for days and pour hot water,
finally, over me. I sweat and walk for days
to inundate each trace of you I have.