Unopened, dun letters envelop the floor. Sheaf leaflets, none read; too many to mention... But her hand, delivered today to my door - penned, posted, scented - receives full attention. Her lines bring pleasure to me, and I glean nuance from her Wish You Were Here missives. News from her mill and river, hills of … Continue reading This Song of Sparrows.
After making love, we drove around the greatest city in the world (for access to the Lakes). You pointed out the citadel and cathedral, painted childhood haunts as gold, wove passages that, on your lips, appointed saints with majesty.
Tapping at the keyboard tiles - in the glow of the evening, pausing only for some hours; once to find inspiration in an unexpected shower and once again, to take a bath - these selected letters became these collected words; becoming a poem called steaming bao buns.
