The Slot
Under the bridge, past where the bats come out, one seam in the concrete has a brass lip worn bright by something that is not weather. A slot. Over it, scratched with a nail, a small post horn with a plug in its bell.
Paper goes in. You never see who puts it in. It makes the sound a card makes sliding over a card.
One slip has stuck, half out. You draw it free. Cream stock, one line, a hand like your own, almost.
You could do this with your eyes shut. You are.
No stamp. No name. No address. It is not addressed to you. It is not addressed.
The slot is warm when you take your fingers away.
- Put your hand in the slot. Found on the sill “A story is a thing you finish, the way you finish a drink you are going to be sorry about.”
- Leave it where it was and go back to the dusk. Found in a drawer “The notes come out of the dark in the shape of a sigh with a spine in it.”
The book · Colophon and credits
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