Letters from a Troll


They arrive in the dead of night.
Sometimes I hear a carriage
On the cobblestones outside,

But I've never been quick enough
To see a delivery take place.

The envelopes have no return address.
The letters themselves are written in runes—
Any reply would be unthinkable.

I save them in a scrapbook, their corners
Soiled with soot from a miner's lamp.

Are they a warning, or just conversation?


©2016 Michael Fraley




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