On the Persistence of the Letter as a Form

　　 by Paul Guest

　　 Dear murderous world， dear gawking heart，

　　 I never wrote back to you， not one word

　　 wrenched itself free of my fog-draped mind

　　 to dab in ink the day's dull catalog

　　 of ruin. Take back the ten-speed bike

　　 which bent like a child's cheap toy

　　 beneath me. Accept as your own

　　 the guitar that was smashed over my brother，

　　 who writes now from jail in Savannah，

　　 who I cannot begin to answer. Here

　　 is the beloved pet who died at my feet

　　 and there， outside my window，

　　 is where my mother buried it in a coffin

　　 meant for a newborn. Upon

　　 my family， raw and vigilant， visit numbness.

　　 Of numbness I know enough.

　　 And to you I've now written too much，

　　 dear cloud of thalidomide，

　　 dear spoon trembling at the mouth，

　　 dear marble-eyed doll never answering back