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    on the 5ives




in soft mail
snowshoe white
laced in ink, it came
running intimate, my hands

nestled it, words
handing themselves
to my tongue, liquid—
undid me some...

time stood its
heavy head inside
outward, to feel
connected through

a page, and you
five hours absent, still
skipping through my
fingers, ripe on the page

you are, bending
bones over one knee,
straddling the sun, weeping
with splendor, and

i am stunned, by all
of it, this letter has no
presence, other than yours,
you who I have not yet

met, a lover under
thunder, radar, dimension
of parchment, dried
ink, postage, and tears.



bent bone

anne pepper