Dear So Many Things,
When I read what I wrote you, I see air rushed out. It is as if, I watched the
train and took the breeze, out of town. I get the feeling, with certainty. Soon
you won't anymore, soon you will return the envelopes and I will be left only
your hands. I have accumulated evidence for this. It amounts to, what I saw was
my owned fault. The things we've left there for a while—I don't expect them,
going on what I've seen or where I've looked. Nod twice if you agree. Here's
to hoping we find an apparent glass to raise, recursive and diligent. Here's to
next time: We will be just a little lighter, a lot softer, and one fewer.
You can see how the past has come to pass //
in the ferns and sweepings of ore and text //
that shadowed such narratives as had been scratched, //
as though any hotel guest could wipe the blight away //
and in so doing, be redeemed for the moment.
-- John Ashbery, "Tension in the Rocks"
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