torn paper, pink under
ochre, perhaps the pieces
of envelopes or labels
cursive, shards of letters
to, from – balance for
the purpose of breathing
in, out – the pages of
dictionaries, scored with
an etcher’s scribe or
whatever honed device
at hand – eyes, afloat
over ink and the edging
of beautiful stains, I
said to a friend, that’s a
railway ticket, so he
must have saved every
scrap of paper, every
trampled bit of gilded foil
each stamp (cancelled
by a doomed postal clerk
before the war) so laced
and beautiful, coded
with rhythm, rabbit glue
and prescient longing
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