What do I tell you?
That I’m back on the Cape?
That it has rained for four days?
That Baskets is returning for a third season? (it is!)
Really, how do I begin this letter?
By telling you about a guy I gave a ride to who spoke so softly it was like he opened his mouth to let a little mouse hidden in his cheeks answer my questions?
Or do I break the news that the Jeep died and that I now drive something devoid of our memories?
I suppose I could try to describe a tremendous nectarine I had
But I doubt I could capture what a rollercoaster that was
Do I dare tell you about Tuesday’s moon?
Surely I want to, fellow moon lover
How full it was—half the sky—amber yellow and hanging over the Atlantic
Though if I did that, then I’d probably have to explain how it seemed to follow me home
And how, with its light falling through my window I lay there and for the first time in far too long didn’t feel alone
But then you’d be able to deduce all the rest
And I’d like to keep some level of mystery to this letter
As if there were some chance that I might be doing just fine
So maybe, if I ever get around to writing, I’ll start by telling you about the fog that came in this morning
I’ll describe the way it rode in on the waves
Then I’ll stop myself and switch to well-wishes
Will be signing my name before ever letting on that I let it envelope me
Never will you know that I sat in the sand and let that fog wrap around me as if it were arms.