one by one they slip themselves
into the mail slot. go thin
in the canteloupe grin moon.
addresses carved in their shoulders.
my neighbors are hastening people.
they think of the next town
& the next. they put bobbins &
wrapped hard candies in their mouths
to deliver upon arrival. i watch
with my dusty binoculars
& consider joining them. i've never been
skilled at catching a gust
& riding it up to a new driveway.
i have the addresses of dead boys
so i fold them & bake them into pies.
all distances are edible with
the right attitude though some
are more bitter than others.
the mail box is so full so i don't
try to add myself tonight. i imagine
telling a passerby "could you
write an address on my spine?
any address it doesn't matter."
i want to be plucked by my bones
& told on what dirt to spend my gravity.
their bodies are going everywhere.
i read a "seattle" & a "boise"
& even a "canada." a siren machine
yanks everyone's ghost
from their light-sleeping.
alone, i walk down there
to the night post office just
to trace the slot. i peer inside
& there are all the travelers
dancing & holding hands in a little
may pole circle. they look up
at my & tell me "get in or go."
i go. i'm too affraid. not yet.
the slot was so cold & thin.
my body balloons like a love confession.
no where to keep it brilliant.
i need company or a biplane.
all those joy bodies
knocking close together
in the mail box's blue glow.
how could they forget all their mails
& just skin live like that.
back home the binoculars
even shut their eyes. i start
another list on my wall
of places i would like to die.
i don't get very far:
the woods in alaska, inside a manhole,
& by a dangling basement bulb.
more tomorrow. more tomorrow.
for now just ceiling standing
until i'm too tired even for that.
cut a slot in the wall
to practice the necessary folding.
i never fit. not quite.