I send these letters.
They fall like snow
on warm ground

and disappear. Last
night you starred
as Tony Soprano,

dream threat or
dream protector,
depending on which

side of the bed
I chose. That wide
chest. Those broad

hands. Now we have
a sparse, dry hail.
Crows play chicken

in changing winds.
They caw, caw.
This missing you,

it’s a stone. This
letter, too, will
vanish, will melt.