AIR MAIL

On a hunt for a mailbox

I carried the letter through town.

In the great forest of stone and concrete

this lost butterfly fluttered.

The stamp’s flying carpet

the address’s reeling letters

plus my sealed-in truth

now winging over the ocean.

The Atlantic’s crawling silver.

The cloudbanks. The fishing boat

like a spat-out olive pit.

And the wakes’ pale scars.

Down here work goes slowly.

I often sneak peeks at the clock.

The tree-shadows are black figures

in the greedy silence.

The truth is there on the ground

but no one dares to take it.

The truth is out on the street.

No one makes it their own.