shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Todd Osborne

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Letter with Forgotten Language

A buffalo mirages through past and future. Oases
dot the timeline at random; one appeared to us
between May and June, your body subsumed
in its waters. I sunbathe in palm trees' shade. My skin

remains transparent so you can still see what's left
of my internal apparatus. Ghost organs haunt my body
like I haunt your old apartment. The buffalo drinks
across from me, his beard dropping beads that evaporate

before the splash. He drains dry this landscape. Now
yours is the only true mass in this jungle of desert;
the beast has moved beyond us. Before going, he gives us
the perfection of language. I forgot it. This place was home.

I wait for your letter, but a watched mailbox—
broken phrases are still broken here.