poem

as yet untitled, so if you can think of something clever...

here in this world
of realities
like oak
i can not
penetrate
your truth

can not see through the hole
one way
i am visible
here
standing on cheap carpet
under lights
flickering
exposed
i wait

you watch
safely
behind doors i don't
have keys to
open

i'm sorry

i still think
i live
here

deluded by mail
that comes
in my name
my misguided herald
lost again

or an officer in
mailman disguise
placing me still
at the scene of the
crime
waiting for my prints
on an envelope
i can't
touch

if i were small enough
to fit
to fold
slide gentl silent
under your
door
i could address me
to myself
and find i might be yours
again
if only shortly

one soft moment
between tearing open
and crumpling unwanted

one moment
to beg forgiveness
for my ugly penmanship

or maybe you would
simply write
return to sender
and i would be mine

again

creased
battered
stamped
but otherwise
whole.

so far as you can tell.