Dear John Lennon,

             I drew you a picture of a blue house,
                                     whose walls were all black,
             and then I sang this picture across the universe.

             The house had a phosphorescent tree, where as a child I hid beneath and
cried when the sun was my enemy and the moon was my enemy, and from this
place, I told a sacred story to the sky and sky-beings whispered back white lies
that tasted like crude oil.

             I remember when I died and the spirits sang me Strawberry Fields.
             It felt like a holy lullaby.
             I did not weep.
             Instead I sought courage from Eagle, and he guided me back to this world.

             I watched a movie once and you were alone amongst the multitudes and
they called you revolutionary—they called you Agitator. Poet they labeled you
and then they crucified you and this is what I think when I can’t sleep because I
can’t write and the sentences plague me until I sigh internally.

             Perhaps my light will fade,
             perhaps we will meet where
             the sky-beings sing and
             whisper their forgotten poems
             amidst the lonely people.