A dangerous man sent me a postcard the other day,
marked as sent from the Isle of Wight.
Isn't there a prison there? A librarian sacked
off for dobbing in abusive staff?



And I saw him months after at a friend's funeral
(the librarian, not the dangerous man).
He is a teacher in London now, and I am
something else, but it is hard to tell what.

​

Each day I use up more blood in the letters I send.
Sometimes they return unopened, though
I am sure I know the smell of an iron and
the sag of subterfuge when I feel its warm damp.

​

Why does the glacier return? It cannot solve anything;
it might as well be one of these letters
from a child full of hatred, or a dangerous man
who says he will kill me when he's released.

​

His wife, my partner, is smiling unaware.
She licks my stamps and remains mute
throughout the process. I am thinking about
selling her to the highest ebay bidder.

​

Is there a saying that madness is contagious?
How do we tell the brink from the poem?
How can these letters of mine remain unheralded?
And that glacial drop is so definite, so complete.

​