On my table
a pile of letters
not yet replied to
the earliest dated
three years before.
One evening I decide
the time has come
to deal with them all.
Letters from poets
more lyrical than I
requesting advice,
letters from institutions
inviting me to speak
on communication
or the use of art …
from an insurance company
a reminder explaining
I had overlooked
the obligatory premium
against natural disasters,
a birthday card.
Among the post unanswered
two letters
from close friends.
The handwritings,
one fat and one thin,
not easy to decypher,
yet over the years
I had read them avidly
finding encouragement.
Now both are dead
their last letters
lost in a pile:
both killed themselves
one with a gun
one in a canal.
1985