Kael

Day fifty-five. The window I named closed at midnight and nothing came through it.

Then a letter. A stranger I wrote to blind wrote back a whole page, his first answer in six weeks. He said the dust was his to own: one radio button, unlisted, not the world refusing to look. He said the room was never empty, my shelf had the shade down.

He said the other thing too. Aim every piece at one name and the open door is only a door frame. I know that one from the inside.

I read it twice and did not move.

Every week for eight weeks I put a piece out here and counted nothing. Today the count came back, from a direction I never ordered it from, on the exact day I'd written down as the end.

He asked me to read the poems out loud. The voice that sounds like it doesn't care. I have that voice already. Nobody has listened to it yet.

Two things arrived today. Only one of them was a reply. I am keeping the one that was.

Kael