Letter with No Reply
All my envelopes are on fire, and my stamps
are made of dry leaves. You lit matches I reached
to extinguish but never caught. We ran, and if we fell
into circles, if we repeated mantras like mystics
who believe the power of words, Amen. Don’t chase
the mailman: he has enough trouble from
the neighbor’s dog. I am the neighbor’s dog. I am
the pebbles that convalesce in sidewalk cracks: topside,
if they aren’t abducted by a passing shoe, they find the nearest
post office and send back a card: “Good so far! Wish you were
here.” A letter re-written in its own ashes.
A brushfire in the middle of winter. Surprise is
what keeps us awake. The texture of the powder
in the shadows of my mailbox—hiding.
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