Ken Chang


I wrote this letter for you,

folded, halved, then quartered it,
the way you used to fold my shirts,
laid on a stamp
like a moist leaf on a shingle,
and sealed it up with
the spit of the attic spiders.

I don’t know where you are,
or even in what country.
So I just put down your name,
taped on
a memory I saved in a jar,
and passed it on to the mailman,
figuring the odds were still better
than a bottle at sea.