Direct Object

from
the overflowing
waste-basket
crumpled unsent letters
descend upon the
freshly waxed floor

India ink spots
and curves skate along
invisible  lines
on the ice
of

the one leaf left

waiting for
the utterance
of my pen

an "I"  may fall here with a

squish

a "you" might follow

the verb

the empty unaddressed envelope blinks
as wrong words bloom
in the shade
of a
billion thoughts

this day will pass
as it must

but the last sheet still remains blank with 

Fear

 Copyright 2011 Alain Millon