There is a Thin Knot

that hangs gently

in the room

where I have stopped sending my mail

and while I imagine

a jam has built up

in the queue

in its place

or possibly somewhere alongside it

I’ve scared up a supernova

upon which I’ve scribbled

a grocery list;

a long and winding diversion

I’ve lost track of how long

my thoughts have thinned there

to become vivid or kelp

or terrible swimmers

the knot is a greyed talisman

but in my flight of fancy

it has silvered

like a baby’s spoon

is not used on a baby

and instead sits in the silverware drawer

like Joseph in a well

like a title does on a book

bored to death

by misuse