passages from the mailman’s wake

…in the days before winter, we floated on the things we sought to see. now we drown the ship before it sets sail.
- in these beads, we mold an uncomfortable truth into grotesque paintings. he remains on the tightrope, waiting for the thread to run from his feet-
(the door, the door. the latch’s rusted now, you strangled your smile with it when the flashlight left its shoes on the porch.)
if the letter was dispatched to him instead perhaps I must take him as my lover.
I have tangled myself in the breadth of air. I am suffocating, now.
the rust will remain.