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