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:

 

              Dear

 

I am haunted by ideas

crying forth from the wetmouth of God

 

              one of which is you