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.
Work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do.
Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do.
-- Mark Twain
This page was last modified on 2011 December 20. "Loved Poem No. 4" by John Sullivan is Copyright ©2003 - 2011, and licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.