Who owns a letter? I’ve burned them, boxed them,
thrown them in the chopped Hudson. They floated . . .
proving what a lightweight fling
I’d duped myself into. The heart’s
thick lumber skinnies itself into shavings
of crumpled crossed-out bleed. Slivers
under fingernails, the sarcastic dump
of mail carriers through your slot, cuts
on your sealing tongue: slow wounds
missives cause, heal, cause again.
Venture off your line, you’ll surely deeply
drown. Cast off aspersions, shanghai
drugged promises. Perfumed tyrannies get
pleasured by X, while B coyly pretends
she’s all she can be. Truth is always
an evasion executed by fantasy.