poem without any aim or pretension
to be another source of your tension—
a post-apocalyptic poem that no one
will read anyway;
found it after you’d shut the door, after
the fray. Inside my palm, while I
held onto the handle in vain.
It had hidden, afraid, in the space
between my fingers:
it took me great pains to tease it out.
But I know it’s yours.
You must’ve left it some day at my place,
some day when you held my hand — and
now I thought, maybe I’d better
give it back.
Still, you might’ve forgotten what it’s like
and you’ll think it’s only an excuse
to send you a letter—
but it’s not a letter, see? This is your
poem: left behind, nearly dead,
a sort of a post-mortem in a postscript,
a sort of a futile something unsaid.