At the Post Office of Souls, there's a late letter
and the hand that wrote it is the hand that delayed it.
The sorting machines are made of jacaranda and white iris--
only the postmistress is fully automated, an Egypto-Mechan perfect fit.
Stamps roll out from dreams and are hard to remember.
Women hired to sleep them also catalog--they are pregnant with postage
and have your address on file, a complete roster of your life in miniature.
They deliver you, cradle you, sing you on through to your dotage.
The aisles are of indigo water mermaid clerks circulate under
estimate arrival times, currents, allowing for windage and mercurial local poohbahs.
Open an envelope, catch the scent of lilacs, bribe Anubis with a kiss
and receive safe passage, receipt of contents, S.W.A.K and certified, you cannot lose us.
________
for Dverse "Compound Me." I have used "underestimate."