Paid Postage Stamps


By Wes Solether


I traced myself finding you  

between the margins

with the paper-flipped cartoons.

The inertia motion carries  

you through the page numbers  

from apartment to apartment.

The river diminished these Midwest hills.

You’re plied towards the center o  

and left me in-ground and bolstered with commas  

as consolation for the winter away.

I’m sorry, but I’ve indulged  

in the image of you  

drawn in black-dress yawns,

baleened in the light behind you.

For a minute a paper lantern  

offers warmths and drifts away,


alight and smoldering in inks,

except I’ve never seen you  

in a dress outside those lines,

except on your birthday  

black leggings and all.

I love you  

for this intimate rebellion.


When all love inevitably  

ends with an asterisk,

your love breaks the keys.