The mailman’s inky fingers
were shaking like a toddler’s head
when his eyes saw
the tragedy
behind the letters.
How many kisses of death
and the news of hell
can the latter carrier
take with him to the village?
This is no majestic mission.
God decides
yet the messenger takes the blame.
I long to lug the light
and twist the words
so that
the beloved only knows benevolence
and the rumours only
rush to remind a forgotten face
yet the sound
I
deliver is cold.
the memory
I deliver is tainted by time.
the laughter
I deliver is brief
and burdened by blows of
blood.
Locked and locked to the
a load of luck.
Thy Vox 
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