your delicate, miniature cursive, Palmer method,
traced invisible lines impossibly straight,
easily hundreds and thousands of words over years,
carrying news from 1900's America to Bristol
and an England fondly remembered but
not so fondly as to return and stay for good . . .
caught some fish, finished one degree, then another, and a third,
and a son and his wife and a granddaughter, now two,
plans to sail for a visit via the Queen Mary . . .
the weightless, pale blue letters responding, now reposing,
restlessly strewn in layer upon layer
over the back seat of a 1950's junk heap of a rust bucket
that served as your backyard time capsule
containing all of your life since
the dramatic and often reincarnated fire at the college
where you lost all you brought with you to America,
the letters kept, every one, in that auto vault
against any further lost past.
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