I dug into my past today
A rather shallow hole
Virtually on the surface
I detected a modest hoard,
The letters I wrote,
carefully filed away,
like old bills
Preserved for God knows what
Poor, inadequate prose
Reports chronically
of travels in my day.
Not of any significance
or any meaning
He, who hoarded everything,
in more and more drawers
And mine; I miss you darling
and mine; I love you dear,
have become lost words
I wrote them, he is dead.