I keep finding this letter

To the gods of abandon,

Tearing it up: Sirs,

Having lived in your shrines

I know what I owe you—

I don’t, did I ever? With both hands

I’ve forgotten, I keep

Having forgotten. I’ll have no such shrines here.

I will not bow in the middle of the room

To the statue of nothing

With the flies turning around it.

On these four walls I am the writing.

Why would I start such a letter?

Think of today, think of tomorrow.

Today on the tip of my tongue,

Today with my eyes,

Tomorrow the vision,

Tomorrow

In the broken window

The broken boats will come in,

The life boats

Waving their severed hands,

And I will love as I ought to

Since the beginning.