| With each word they tighten their fetters | letters |
| and lengthen their chains. She swipes the notes he sends her, | splinter |
| locked in shining sheets, somehow there | here, |
| yet always beyond reach. Still she waits | making |
| with open hands, catching coin, never knowing | love |
| the lips from which each leaf is torn – | shorn, |
| still, she prays, where spaces stood, his letters stand – | stranded |
| still, where once he stood, she withstands grief | like |
| like pennies pounded thin, like thieving | sheep, |
| hands and mouths mutely confessing | caught |
| that most essential crime – the sin | in |
| of lettering love. Even us judges then | thickets – |
| cannot set them free. | ensleeved. |
|
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