Envelopes have vanished  from our lives,
From thresholds where they were a wind .

Their sounds were midnight’s movements
Like rats in alleyways glowing in tiny eyes.

At times they would bring the bone’s rattle,
A mother serious but actually dead inside.

They would bring creepy-crawly alphabet
Of rising aspirations from a bottom to top.

A dead poet would write poems on backs,
Ones not meant to cross death’s threshold.

Letters now wear no envelopes over them
For our back-of-the envelope calculations.