Howard Firkin
The most endearing,
      almost enchanting feature
of my letters:

they’re never written.
      Hear that? That scratching sound
is rain on leaves,

a sudden breeze,
      the possums on your tin roof:
it’s not a pen.

The licking tongue,
      the stamp of fingers pressing

that’s someone else.
      Relax. No postie’s walking
past your box

with mail from me.
      We’re keeping nothing from you
in that sack.

Each day they’re not there,
      more and more. They don’t stop
not arriving

in a flood
      you slowly come to love:
an emptiness

that comforts you
      each time you find them in
a heavy book,

pressed flat as flowers,
      discolouring the pages,
reeking faintly.