The Mail Came by James Navé

The Mail Came When you hear cries, do you lean into the clouds? When I was a child, I looked for higher ground, first in the forest, then in the town. Every address was the right address. There were pigeons, and doves, and robins, spirits on the hills. Wind, rain, ice, and snow came in winter. Strawberries, corn, and bare skin came in summer. Nobody jumped from the bridge. I had wings. My childhood tumbled under the moon. I smoked Marlboros. I sang on the hills. My hands were dust. The mail came. I answered when I could.