The ink has grown into a spider's web
woven against the mossy envelope
and there is nothing to be done.
There is a room
in the back with no door but a slit,
A blank faced wall with a thin lipped mouth
always open but unwilling
to swallow each slender morsel.
Day by day they feed it
stuff it full of telephone bills
and birth announcements.
They have not checked it in years
gone back to see how full,
how heavy the room had grown
They did not hear how it groaned
under the weight of the words in their thin paper skins.
The words that were not read,
were not yet grown into thoughts
could not stay their germination
but burst instead into luminescent bloom.
It is Christmas Eve
and the Post Office is on fire.
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