Postcards just as inarticulate as the boy behind the wheel, sheets of

airmail tissue (cheaper!) penned close with detail; a corsage with a blunt note:

each missive begged mate me, an imperative I often obeyed, curious, unafraid,

yet confused by the rough retreat, post-charm, post helter-skelter.

A boxful of evidence however crude – even a magic marker thrown

from a tree before the bear sank its teeth into it – proves their valor.

They were brave to court me, an obstacle to be written around,

a mind to be baffled, a body to be caressed and carried away

to their lairs for the little commas of tomorrow and tomorrow.

I applaud such palpable literary assault, even the stopped sentences

drawn through, the purple ink and quixotic spelling, for now electronic missives

are so easily unplugged, and whose withered hand will caress those?

To have put down the bat or carburetor or guitar, and the longing

measured out in smudged script then glued shut with kisses alleged

sincere and wet – the letters arrived, and my fingers – quick – slid

under the flap and tore them open, the edges now so ragged and soft.