Correspondence

I have a formula for dealing with post:
Say of a morning you get three letters.
One - whichever is the smallest -
You touch to the peacock blue crown
Of the gas stove.
You watch heat chew it up.
You watch dark moustaches feather upwards
From the shrinking plastic window.
If two envelopes are equally small
Drop them to the floor.
Whichever lands face up, burn.
If they face the same way, repeat.

Of the remaining two
You pick the largest.
You open it with a bread knife.
You don't read it.
Instead, you write down the name and address
Of the person or company that sent it.
You get a manila envelope from the drawer.
You write their name in block capitals.
You write their address in lower case.
You print off a copy of this poem
Fold it, hold the fold with a paperclip and slip
The poem inside.
You stick the Queen's face to the top right-hand corner.
You walk to the postbox, whistling.

When you return home
A print-damp broadsheet folded in the crook of your elbow
The last letter lies in the centre of the dining room table
Like a suicide note or a letter from your wife
Explaining why she no longer loves you.
You put the letter in a box marked 'evidence'.
You keep the box lodged behind the mower
In the garden shed, underneath the shelf lined with bottles of
poison.
Sometimes, at work, you think of all the words inside.
You think of them crawling, like ants.