The last public letter writer write
In sunlight or moonlight. When there was
No sun or moon, a candle might serve.
Sometimes you'd find her on the edge
Of a circle of homeless men around a fire
Burning in a trash barrel. When there's no light
She turned into a string of quiet words
And was carried home by the wind or,
If he felt like it, her cat. Even now
A lit match and a pool of copperas and soot
And oak gall might summon her at need.
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