On Sunday I wrote you a letter about how the sky was such a deep blue
Then, on Sunday, again, I wrote you another one, a long one, about the sky
And how I walked into it, over and over, like a door I kept opening
On Monday, I wrote you a letter about how my body rolled over
The green field of you, Carpathian, unreal
On Wednesday I wrote another long letter, mostly apologizing about missing Tuesday
On the next day (Thursday) parts of you fell from the sky, your limbs, your mouth, the eyes of you
The next day I put you back together again
On Saturday, Monday happened again, or was it Tuesday
But today, it’s Sunday, and I hear the sirens, why do they even bother, and an explosion, culture’s shrapnel, my lips kissing the torn edge of you
