In the dead letter office
are 14 billion tears, 35 million
expressions of love, 35 million 
expressions of hatred, enough

incorrect assumptions to choke
a moon-sized shark, eleventy-one
thousand dog barks translated from
the Sanskrit, a piece of Captain Hook’s
alligator, inconsequential amounts
of radium in the form of old watch dials, 

an anonymous promise of fidelity,
his promise never to drink again,
her promise of a willingness to try,
their promises to pay, form letter
threats of legal action, form letter regrets
to inform you of the death in action…

pomegranate seeds on a Christmas card,
the eye of the Hydra, the teeth of
the Cyclops, the face of Tecumseh
on a napkin, the hammer and nails
of Jesus Christ himself, and everything
you thought you had coming to you

for better, for worse, for your punk 
credibility, for your regard for  Broadway,
for your faith in the ruthless efficiency
of the Universe in delivering what’s deserved
to those who deserve it.  It’s a big room

you can’t fathom without sending yourself
to the only place you can’t possibly go 
and expect to come out of 

in one piece — once you’re in there
they open you up, look for where
you should be, send you there 
if it’s obvious and if not
they destroy all correspondences
and auction off the valuables,

which makes the dead letter office
exactly like anywhere else.