Book Blown Away by a Reader

Letters are not flesh, yes,
Yes, that feels correct, but
To us, these letters, though . . .

No, we want to confess
There’s no meaning in us,
No, not in and of us.

We know you can make us
Mean all kinds of means, just
By rearranging us,

Just by thinking through us.
You, flesh, what we are not
And can’t mean, only wish

We did, wish we could, when
You bring your wish to us.