“My Visitor”

Was it she who came lurking
outside my back door,
spilling her envelopes,
like rags in the snow?
Ink swirling serifs
until I could read no more;
Her letters were the color
and her words were the verb.
Her thumbs pressed upon me
like slime on a snail—
and the last words she wrote
was her only emotion
to have never been wet.

narrative poem written on 03-31-2010 by: on mattkane.com
view image of poem


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