Pan's Pen

Did you get my letter? I wrote it
on parchment torn from scrolls
of lost will with a charred chip
of flesh.

Inappropriate notions, friction
on cinder and carbon smudges
conspired to burst my words
into flames. But you have an
ancient's eye, and can decrypt
smoke signals like nobody's
business, right?

An extra copy traced by fingers
on this shore, a third shouted
to a passing storm. Look out for
ripples or echoes passing by,
any day now.

Unless, of course, eaten by tuna
or stuck with the plastic bags
in Sargasso. And winds won't
do the sensible thing and stop
for directions.

RSVP, you know where to find
me and when. Just type in
the palm of your hand, kiss
a fist, press send.