I think it's done...

Letter Head

Should we call me a cat’s toy
poor 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
spreading over plains
to pool between our legs. 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. Wet boats sink
paper melts from our mouth.
We are the page, slicing
each pad of the fingers I own.
I the whole hand open
wide (ever willing)
and grope.