Love Letters Mostly
from The Wind Blows Through the Doors of My Heart, forthcoming from Knopf.
Notes in a bottle floated up the bloodstream,
script hardly audible, a ringing in my ears,
love letters mostly, transfused through centuries,
once thrown from breakwaters
or cliffs. And then the writers,
unrequited, walked toward home.
Who knows how they lived out their lives,
if those they so desired did finally turn to them.
Who made me who I am.
I love to stand under an awning, smoking,
while some storm hits hard the ports of Boston.
What knows to do so dives deep as it can.
Click here for W.S. Merwin's piece on Deborah's work in the current issue of Brick.