It says in a dictionary
that love is
a kind of thin silk stuff,
formerly worn in mourning,
that tender is to be
soft or delicate in texture
fragile, easily broken,
fine and slender.
I send you my slender love.
Do not mourn.
Take cover in this frail cloak
when you wake from dreams
and find fields, forests, smoky towns,
a desert or two and the great ocean
between us.
I'd like to say with conviction
that the vast blue sky is
the bed we share.
This would not take into account
my skin
or the way clouds are piling in the East
on this bright Sunday
in a town
hiding somewhere
below the equator.