Eyes Only

Eyes Only

by Linda Pastan

Dear lost sharer

of silences,

I would send a letter

the way the tree sends messages   

in leaves,

or the sky in exclamations

of pure cloud.

Therefore I write

in this blue

ink, color

of secret veins

and arteries.

It is morning here.

Already the postman walks

the innocent streets,   

dangerous as Aeolus   

with his bag of winds,

or Hermes, the messenger,

god of sleep and dreams   

who traces my image   

upon this stamp.

In public buildings

letters are weighed

and sorted like meat;

in railway stations

huge sacks of mail

are hidden like robbers' booty   

behind freight-car doors.

And in another city   

the conjurer

will hold a fan of letters

before your outstretched hand—

"Pick any card. . . "

You must tear the envelope   

as you would tear bread.

Only then dark rivers   

of ink will thaw

and flow

under all the bridges   

we have failed

to build

between us.