Member-only story
Safe Drop
Free Verse
Somewhere, stands a postman
at the juncture. His footsteps split
with the print across the envelopes.
There are three halves to the letter. One
is the Arial address, type font startled to attention.
Lips aren’t made for black and white
but they trace familiar habits. Sign here.
Then comes the heady crinkle. A passing gaze
fumbles on the recognition of a name.
Personhood creeps up in peculiar ways, like a bowling ball
rolled through a field of signal flares. Neurons fire
to scoop up the spare
surrendered to their doorstep.
Under the flap is a car crash of atoms. From pressed edge
to pressed edge, the pale slip stretches
on the futon without bother,
like one of Schrödinger’s creatures.
What a crime it is, to be and receive
our own messengers.
Someone said,
“Those vibrations
are just the castoffs from the road.
The seismic murmur of a truck met and unmet,
pressing onwards.”
