My tears write to me once again.
A dead bird brings the letter.
Sets it, gentle, on the altar.

Looks up at me with sightless eyes.
Wherein I find dire comforts hinted.
And fades away to whispy curls and fatal shadows.

A letter made of scars and fevers.
Words like severed entrances.
An envelope of skin and shaking.

And that familiar postmark.
Conveying with no symbols at all.
Invisible extensions of the common circle.