I am writing to you from the stomach of a
whale where I am swallowed but still alive.
I am sleeping in shifts so that I don't
miss a shot at redemption.
I am writing down my dreams dutifully
but in the morning they make little-to-no sense.
I am sending postcards to the cemetery
with your plot number written down.
I am hoping the office will tape them
to your headstone.

This record is really just forty-four minutes of rain
falling on the roof of a parked car.

This record is really just me looking up synonyms
for dying over and over and over.