If I composed a letter tonight,
What would I write?
To whom would I write?
Who is someone, at some distant site—some far forever away—
a suitable heir, who by the tail would catch someday
what, entailed in the entailment I have to commit
to the fickle support of a frail branch
on a tree without roots, like a wing all aflit,
is written while only quiet dogs are awake,
under only a quiet mottled glowing light?
Could there be someone whom I can hope, for some sake,
to be conscious and walking later this morning,
who, I can pray, could make my words something more than mistake?
I can pray that there might.