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.