Bones and Ghosts

DAVID MILLS
From my row house mailbox, I fished / an envelope: no address, just “David.” / scrawled. In my room, I read: e-mails // bounced back, calls orphaned. If you’re / alive and don’t want to talk I get it. / Though six hours across the Atlantic / is much farther than six along it. If / need be, I will kneel