New Letter

When they greet you

in the foreground
in the suburban

burnt out mornings
that only a dog skeleton

can absorb.
And they call you
by face and say,
"You are done
with 'you' poems!"

"With comical metaphors!"
"With lightness!"
Agree with them.
Tell them that
I am no longer sad.
I will write from metal
Of a hurrah
before charging
of all the things that fill
of all the things that I know
of the only thing I know.