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Dear Richard: I’m told that the only cure
for a broken heart is unicorn blood.
Short of that, the allegations of the heart
write notes in the margins of our lives where
creatures of love can seldom find one another.
Those sweet afternoons, where apple and cherry
trees bloomed fair and the rain nurtured all our
secrets, have taken their amorous intentions.
The warm winds that sweetened our thighs
are now disarmed and no longer dangerous.
There are days I’m sure the walls of the house
ache for us, want to rebuild our paradise
piece by piece and resume the life it was used
to living. Not even the lawn gets mowed
the same way anymore, and no one reads
the book review section of the New York Times
since you packed up your stuff and moved
to that trendy loft in Iowa City. About all
that’s left for either of us to do is learn how
to live in the freedom our failure leaves behind.