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by Philip F. Clark

The letter never found an eye.

I opened it, forgetting it was mine;

its paper worn to dough, its ink a ghosted blue

on the page. I could just make out words,

untethered sentences: '. . . your decision,'

'. . . years from now,' '. . . A risk on my part.'

To whom had I wanted to send it? No face

came back to me. It was an erasure now,

made with years of bad weather. The rest

was conjecture -- my eyes trying to make

out its runes; a puzzle. I kept it.

I put it back in the wet and crumbling box.

All day I thought of it -- by whom it may

have been held. The winter kept its promise

of snow. I do not have the hand

I had then, nor the paper -- not an image

came to me. And this is where we end --

the exorbitant eye of forgotten days.

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Author's Note

The past is often held in hand.

Comments

Samuel Derrick Rosen, Jan 15, 2017

I like this but thought it could do with a little tightening:

The letter never found an eye.
I opened it, forgetting
that it was mine;
its paper worn to dough,
its ink a ghosted blue,
I could just make out words,
untethered sentences.

To whom had I wished to send it? No face returned. It was
an erasure now,
and the rest, conjecture --
my eyes trying

to make out its runes; a puzzle. I put it back
in the wet and crumbling box.

All day I thought of it --
by whom it may have been held. The winter kept its promise
I do not have the hand I had then, nor the paper --
not an image
came to me. And this

is where we end --
the exorbitant eye
of forgotten days.