The constants. sun shines over houses that were bombed in the night. mailman comes each day at same time with mail for you even though you no longer live here. you are not a beloved sent to war that I've heard no word of, whose letter was inside of a blown-up mail shipment bag or who has not written because he has been killed. perhaps my longing for your letters is self-indulgent luxury, only possible because of the absence of war on my soil, writing done in leisure of wars waged elsewhere written in invisible ink unseen here but appearing there next