Echo

Think of the times you halted
after the poems conclusion
and read it again
only to find it man-handled
- opened in postage -
and the last word
covered in crystals
of salt, a likeness
of its previous self
but safer, dried out,
promising to taste
the same but reeking
of doubt. You hate
the newness of an unread page
almost as much
as the wasteful
echo of a word replayed.