Dear Citizen —

I have letters for some of you.

        I didn’t build this city out of fields. Pedal faster, aloft in the air. The dog’s glossy fur, your glossier hair. I never get such mail.

Ink courses my veins. Ink, your only witness, fades. Mail drop.
Drop.
Drop.

        It wasn’t me. Soil darkened my grandfather’s palms. My boss stuffs the bags. Stamped. Seared. Cancelled. In service from an early age. My route shortens each day.

Iron.
Borrowed pearls.
Barbed wire.

        How teeth loosen in the skull. I called gummed paper a stamp, now your letter’s here. My mother never wore brocade.

You, me, and a third thing.
Isosceles.

        Do not distrust my lidded marble eyes. Drowning’s fine. Once you’ve left, we’ll reprise your leave-takings, such pathos to play.