Packed into a cardboard box
with ly’s dangling
from gaps between
the flaps. I’m done with action

that can’t justify
itself. If an escalator squeaks,
let it squeak. If a cat scratches,
let it. If the box

gets returned to sender
because exile has no zipcode,
let it sit on the stoop
till I’m ready

to unpack it—slowly
cutting off those letters first.