for Megan

I don’t trust the post­man. My let­ters
arrive in a cer­tain order on cer­tain
days where the shad­ows of limbs cross
on the mail­box like a lock. I nev­er hear him
arrive; I try to watch for him but always
some­thing makes me look away—Nicodemus want­i­ng
water, flick­er­ing leaves, a strange noise
from my oth­er room—and a full box
a moment lat­er. Who is this phan­tom in
blue, imper­son­al her­ald?

I take my let­ters to the post office, affix­ing
the stamps like seals on a pharaoh’s tomb,
pre­served thoughts, the paper fold­ed
just so, the creas­es tight and strong. I
hope the rain won’t smear the
address. Antic­i­pa­tion and
                         the scratch of my pen.