it's crazy, i keep telling myself, and stupid.
i can't pay the shipping insurance;
i know you wouldn't sign for it;
and anyway, you don't want my heart,
so gelatinous and full of leaves - and far -
but still i imagine you holding that package,
first to your nose, then against your ear:
the moist green smell of a playground
and a swishing sound, like a washing machine.
we could draw this out, you know -
pushing letters back and forth
for years, exchanging bits of hair
and good luck charms.
i could subsist on that for some time,
from you. like heloise, i'd settle:
for a consolation, an endearment,
a halfhearted invitation.
or i could send you this brave letter
with its cache of dangerous words,
and bloody fingerprints for stamps.