a hollow mailbox echoes with the solemn of rain
nearly midnight, or close to escape hour
the bend at the corner of the image the only
holding back between these margins just some
saved scrapings, the sound of ink on paper
and no more. save yourself the trouble
and free me. from freedom. a holding
pause. a severed attachment. all breathing
only a knowing, and no more. April yet
begins the sort of leaving underwritten
by the arch between which allows sight,
or some resemblance, dear witness, there is
nothing I have said nothing I have done no
thing a presence better kept under lock & key.