Dead Letter

The landlord reached into the dark of the box

and pulled out a ghost with a stamp.

It had lived in the dust while we changed the locks

and turned down the wick on the lamp.

The handwriting hit like a weight in the chest.

I used the dull knife with a hand that was weak.

The paper was torn and the words were a test

of a language we no longer speak.

You were sorry back then, when the winter was new.

You were trying to find the right way to stay.

But the mail didn't move and the season went through,

and I'm reading the news of a dead yesterday.