I found your letter
in the pocket
of a borrowed goat.
It showed me
the way—
small as an eye.
One mountain tried
to taste another,
then spit it out.
Your letter called
all the other letters
“friends.”
You too were
my friend,
soft as a melting
or melted nail.
Dear little cage,
dark plum.
Originally published in The Year of Yellow Butterflies (Hanging Loose Press, 2015). Reprinted with permission of the author.