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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