Amherst

it was a solitary life
glancing out the certain
slant of light
parchment torn, tattered
pen marks scratching,
splattered
hissing on the kettle
whispers of your end
hearing birds at dawn
and a carriage
'round the bend

for yours was a solitary life
your only solace was to write
letters written
letters burned

how much of it returned

-G.B.