Each of the fourteen letters I did not send you
has evolved into something different, and
they turn up in unexpected ways. The first
crumpled up in my backpack. The fourth full
of molecular structures in the margins. The
eleventh a coaster for my cup of tea.
Three of them are paper cranes, two
are boxes, one I found blown up against
the tree outside. The bird nest on the windowsill
has suspicious white triangles. One day
you will peel off a piece of paper
from your shoe, a paper with your name
on it, a paper with a sentence complete
in itself, a paper with a sentence true from
this day to that. Dear you, it will say,
I am writing.