The Release

Piles of poetry, clumps of burning
hair reeking of lost loves.

I push you into the mailbox like
a dog, like a drunk forcing his
girlfriend into a wall.

The envelopes collide with blue
metal, with five o’clock traffic,

and I stand like a damaged
soul, lateral, and dead-eyed
like a member on a pew.

This moment of silence is for my
lost souls traveling through paper
into the realm of society,

into the judgmental nothing.