These are the days
When letters cut
And bore you
They don’t post
Butterflies any more
But send you crocodiles

Through the door
Traps to knee jerk
Your hands in panic
Of past lives, thought forgotten

The envelope brown and innocent
Plain elephant skin to remind
The imperfection will cut
You, tiny paper cut reasons
They don’t send butterflies anymore
But deliver crocodiles to the door

Sharks in charge of devil telephones
To collect your soul should it be proven, they will lay claim to owning
That too, my eyes hold black shoes
Double exposed tread still new
Not yet worn from pacing

May be I will confuse these wolves
And backward kettle men

Maybe I will post them


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