To read the latest issue, click 'Issues by year' in the menu above

I see rubber dangle
from the branch of a tree.
I suspect that our postman
leaves bands here for free.

His mailbag starts full
of postcards and letters,
and flyers new-sprung
from red rubber fetters.

He needs no small trophies
when finished, no scraps
to mark emptied perfection
and celebrate laps.

So he leaves them behind,
but not scattered or thrown.
He hangs them on branches
as though they had grown.

Each round, open-mouthed,
elasticized sphere
speaks for the postman:
Look well, I was here.