Eraser Dust

The love I had written for you has yellowed in the rain

I left it by the window, and autumn has come.

I never did find a stamp—

the space I had so carefully filled with your address

has lost itself with the envelope, long missing.

The paper spine is bent, worn

and insensible; the dog-eared corners,

creased into the ink, have become brittle:

It does no good to keep as a keepsake,

not anymore.

I have folded into my bags a ream

of crisp, unlined, printer paper—

I am nowhere without a pen.

In the lines she will read

gazing in my eyes

little will resemble

that scuffed-up bundle of pages

torn from a notebook.

There will be no nervous, broken bits of lead

(those terrible mechanical pencils

never could last);

no smudged words, no careless hand;

and even, perhaps,

no long line of mistakes

to hide in the trail of eraser dust.