Atlanta

I have not written to you

In all the time

since we left the ocean.

Yet I am certain

that I write to you constantly.

Every thought a postcard

in my mother’s writing

Addressed as much to you

as it is to myself

and to our ocean.

I think I would like it

if I could measure our closeness

In things that I can hold

In paper cuts and paper boats

In your intermittently dotted I s.

But I have not written to you

and I do not think I will.

Perhaps you could do it for me.