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The envelop shouts
The crooked stamps, strips of tape crisscrossing the back
Handwriting large bold sliding downwards, cross outs.
No need to see the return address.
No need to open to feel the sharp bright stabs
Glittering, blinding, wounding, accusing, berating.
Written along the margins, on the back in the PSs will be proof
that "they" are everywhere, poisoning food, air, the neighbors.
Clipped to the pages will be newspaper clippings, underlining so heavy
it tears the page.
Throughout will be the rage, the fear.
Yet, existing precariously among the shards of feeling will be
small quiet pools of ordinary, "What is your weather like?"
"here is a picture of you with your cousin."
Expectation of those little areas of comfort will
urge me to carefully open the letter from home.
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