Writing a letter to you
from hospital,
quoting Edgar Allan Poe:
'Helen, thy beauty is to me...'
I was nine or eight.
I never sent it.
I remember a warm glow,
saying your name to the child psychologist:
my best friend, yes...
A star that didn't move or fade all night,
watching it through
the big window; the sleeping beds
all around me
like ships at sea.