Letter

#1,000 Subscribers.

As I write it’s spring, a butterfly flutters in (spring). From the
glass window, from a rice bowl, from a clock, from folded knees,
even from a nail, butterflies flutter out. Even wingless things
gather in the name of butterflies. Fish with wings arrive through 
the glass window filled with sky. Certain butterflies bring in
what they collect on their legs. Among them, three lines of a
letter I sent him long ago. Among these lines, Are you dead?—has 
changed to I am dead marked with a black smear.