They’re white as rice that wasn’t thrown at us.
His stack of letters (nineteen-sixty-eight’s
Mail, barely legible) was saved, penned straight,
Not far from enemy lines. Infamous:
The Mekong Delta, toured by curious
Loved ones, prepared to demonstrate
Our grief, disarm now, do what liberates,
Surrendering to the incongruous.
His presence here seems reconstructed as
Those letters fold my world to paper wings.
Why do brave words demand laments? I meant
To re-read, gather them for warmth — whereas
I light a match, red breast flames releasing
Angels illegible in their ascent.