How Are You, I Am FineJordan Davis
–Alice Fulton Given the shrapnel melancholia Makes of the dictionary it's no Fait accompli, this emergence With insight into our actual assets. The tasted parallel takes place At a club in a future where jazz Has resumed its urgency, Letters home plucked from a dumpster To be delivered belatedly. Some begin the way our mothers said Would make us unloveable, how are you, I am fine, and do they tear up The ones who find us long after The starlight stopped beaconing, As in dampen the corners of their eyes To the point of making sleeves darker? Yes. Night might tear the paper Too, obliterate the envelope, set The ribbon coiling, a firework snake. The thank you for writing we await.
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