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.