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The letters gullied a basin of trees
and took their turns on loose sheets,
yet turn-taking tattles lengthier
than buried, crowded complaints
objected. Injustices soapboxed on
codes new known, watering moss
and hairline bark on their backs,
keying in speculative lines terminally,
platforming growth centuries old toward
zippy light inside a framed by frame
glass wall, by now a classic, wept
at the dopamine grief of likelier tattlers
at root. Whispers aloud. Whippoorwill
brutish the instant, but piling earthly scree
certainly stooges the picture, so
everybody’s open letters are for everyone
and for no one to ever really read.
[4/8/19...]
internet bellyache 