I was just thinking
it occurs to me
that choosing is
always a kind of death
everything else
that could have happened
buried and gone.
I mourn my parallel
universe life
which has moved
to a home with no address
a yurt maybe, or
a nomadic lean-to.
I write postcards
which I cannot send
with pictures of skylines
blue oceans and bright
green islands.
I put stamps on
and burn them
clearing the air
in my new home -
a small apartment
with a mailbox
bolted surely
to the doorframe.