Andrew Goldfarb

The Letter Opener

indoors it always slightly rained
and wood paneling grew up from the ground
in castles with liquor moats
brandy and wine and turtle's necks

reclining on the carpets, goblets and too many strings
invitations invoke no responses
pants go out of fashion
the horsehair and walls

"our days have become pointed," in his last letter he wrote
sealed with wax in that affected manner he employed
beneath the flap, a drop of blood