Envelopes have now vanished in our lives,
From thresholds where they were a wind .
Their sounds were midnight’s movements
Like rats in alleyways glowing in tiny eyes.
At times they would bring a bone’s rattle,
A mother serious but actually dead inside.
They would bring creepy-crawly alphabet
Of rising aspirations from bottom to top.
A dead poet would write poems on backs,
Not meant to cross her death’s threshold.
(many poems of Emily Dickinson are found on the backs of envelopes)