| dear a., have you found them huddled in ash their fat leaves like parasols over burnt hills they were mine. of me. they glued as directed. | |
| dear c., black wand of my arm does not listen in english should your right hand replace this strap on me cool and wrinkled the wash still in the air |
| dear a., the grapes hang almost patio-long floor of last night a shot flown across the yard something deep black I need the record loud to feel you in my throat it is my neck the neck you told me | |
| dear c., no music here but the rustle of dried pasta when the wind jars the kitchen grains of flour echoing against the space between other grains |
| dear a., bottom sole stencil like the viol back you cut out the record box my needle riding its stiff outline the skin pulled tight down to the plank it croons when it rubs certain times | |
| dear c., night all I hear shoes shoes the street a thick tambourine skin and all night multitudes of legs their regularity hinged on clouds of dust some whistle to tell when to turn |
| dear a., sandal in the palm of my hand feels missing as of space not filled with sound another space integrally vacant finds its tenant gone and still strings gums resins wood you tell me collect nothing wait the rented day ends covered in juices | |
| dear c., listen this: crinkle lair orange path to ridge cave the syc. buds about to about and sigh sigh feathers (break) you sing-read it, c. see the moon not thought |
| dear a., which pebbles gone which return seeming to loose the strings of your shoes the shaken case of rubble bits of resin pinching my feet when I cross from closet to bed closest distance in waltz my two-step punctured | |
| dear c., sorry soles you bear take the open half of an apple from the yard to rub them or grapes mashed with salt to suck the impure we have to wait many years before we even meet for the first time at the radio station |