Letters 
 
Letters may flow
over the heart
like quiet streams
soothing and turning
away the nettles
that wound.
 
They may be touching spirits
tossing on empty beds
creating dreams
to be lived
or forgotten
in tangled sheets.
 
They may be mop-up operations
cleaning up disasters
with word shovels,
sorted for future reference
in ribboned boxes.
 
Or  . . .
they may be stand-ins for confrontations,
for there are those who feel
an envelope of studied phrases
is preferable
to anger
cascading in the ears
long after its relevancy has passed.