hagiography

i write across a long distance.
i hope the words carry.
it's colder, here, than i thought it would be;
there are fewer stars, longer nights.
the journey was long.
i hope you're well,  i hope you don't worry.
i hope your bed is warm at night,
i hope your heart is full.
it's the immediacy, here,
that strikes me hardest;
the ability of danger or hate or lust
to take me by the throat
midafternoon on a thursday.
the tangibility of large thoughts, here;
it is possible to touch racism,
taste sexism, smell intolerance
even after a long, grey thunderstorm.
i hope your days are easy;
i hope your work is fulfilling, i hope
your body never ails.
it's colder, here, than i thought it would be;
but i no longer seek the heat.