The Blue Postman

Last night I dreamed

two cupped palms released

a blue-eyed tree frog


into my wrist vein.

Sunday morning, and cold.

Awakened by a ring


of high metal, the creaking

front gate dislodged:

I knew he had returned.


The blue postman


fired for scrawling ash print love notes

on the lip of envelopes

—seals a letter in my mailbox.


He walks away humming like a child without eyes.


All morning whiteness

consumes my lake with low clouds.


Terrified to open it—pacing

the garden like an erratic

spectre, fog-veined, a river


refusing to evaporate, kneading

my wrist for an underwater pulse

—I opened it.


Southpaw cursive, smeared ashes

in my own hand:




I am haunted by ideas

crying forth from the wetmouth of God


              one of which is you

Copyright © 1999 – 2020 Juked