The undelivered letter
Lay
Like a private breath
In the late afternoon moment

It’s beige folded secrets,
Duller at the edges
Had been
Whiter, much brighter

The light,
Post box slanting
Fingered its season
Through its favourite hole in the wall

Then halting
Checking its nails for aging
Found itself foiled, anesthetised
By the everyday curtain call
For heroism