Letter to a Wise Fool

On cliff of childhood, I could try LSD with him
eyes bursting with calamity

he was trying to study himself
but I could tell him, find nothing

at all, just the past haunting
in time, transforms him, unveils a key to secrets.

He was trying to jam it to open the bathroom doorway
where I locked myself in, high as hell. I’d said too

much, I hardly believed it.
Two miles away, little poison hail darts

plopped into the saltwater of the ocean, oscillating
the crashing on the very same sand the bonfire's smoke slept

embedded in our clothes, until years later I guess it was some nameless
last night at the beach, waiting on the train platform,

I think we were drunk inside the city's soul between bus rides.
When I visited, we said our goodbyes, I opened up

the only book of poetry you own and stashed in a song of myself,
The Fool card, and a letter to you

who melted the stagnating ice-slush;
the lake we spent our last day together beside.

I am destructive and driven, and for this
transcendent selfishness, I am sorry,

but not regretful; there are so few places
I can open that book and not burn in cold.

Hidden in the freezing air there are so many places
to lock secrets away, to celebrate in silence,

still I disappear completely as sure as the sun will rise,
snow fills me and leaves while you sleep.

Today was frozen. The snow melted when I left—it was tranquilizing:
a letter and a tarot card slept in the bed with us.

Tired, I got up in the dark,
and said my goodbyes to your sleep.

I slid the letters written on a coffee shop napkin,
then gazed deep until I shone.

I walked into the snowmelt and the sun rising,
not looking back, marching with a newfound intensity,

putting on the blue and white snow hat
you sometimes wear.

Jack Miller is a poet from San Francisco, living in Tennessee, and his debut collection The Glory Tree is forthcoming publication by Bone & Ink Press in February 2020. His writing has appeared in Raven Chronicles and Open Minds Quarterly, among others.