Open Letter to Timothy Liu

It’s not the wind that makes us
possible. It is this offering, finally,

this prayer for the men I have loved
into ruins. Listen: the cities go on

bolting their loud doors—
you tell me they hope in all

the wrong sense: nothing speaks,
and the sunlit moths are dead

on the patio, surrounded by ash
blown in from everywhere else.

Timothy, when I’m driving home
tonight, I promise my breathing

will be constant and even
though you might not hear it,

I want you to know I am near,
that you can find me—

the wind doesn’t make this
world: teach me how you sing,

that’s all I ask.

Derek Graf