a thousand letters smeared with ink:
one hundred mailed, to various locations across Eastern Europe;
seven hundred donated to a middle-aged Spaniard doing a project on human language and its vagaries;
one hundred ninety-nine flung into the air like feathered deformities.
smeared on the last line in purple ink-
slammed on the desk in a fit of incompetence,
and flung over a warm shoulder into the latticed metal trash can beyond.
guarded by the latticed metal trash can.
two cramped fingers,
and zero miles closer to telling you what I needed to.