Latest Revision... Modified first draft

I hesitate to call this a second draft. It's coming along.

Letter head

Should we call me a cat’s toy or
tired mouse? Wound
rewound, rusty key wrench
thumb flat on my
back back back. Click
grind. How we see
me… that’s not quite
it – a double-breasted bauble
a mailbox slit rammed with
letters, ink seeps
from my nose and collects
rushing across the continent
to stand unread. We
won’t extend one finger,
probe an envelope licking line
on a brief paper kick – not for old
time’s sake or even a bubble of gas,
a laugh. We, fog of loose’d pages
a sigh, leaves that never hit
the ground. We boats sink
paper melts from our mouth.
We are the page, slicing
each pad of fingers I own.
I the whole hand, cup
at the sea, open.