There are tiny silver hammers of travel. You have no time. Lots of weather. A majority of these are beaches. Lots of love.
Voices of them holding their tongues. All over this town. Transfer was led to billfold forty five, or so, dollars or francs. They all spend somewhere. Love.
I cannot say how the vanishing blue is either a sign or a symptom of a sign to come. To ask her to think, my thrills are a tub of gin and newspapers on the floor. Kisses.
Snowfall, a light glass becoming dense. Boots to cling to. A warm fire and sweater conversations keeps us warm. All my love.
Back on the strip. Mighty dry, far away from frozen we went the wrong direction. Calling soon. Hugs and kisses across the board.
Dual forest, another city floats on possibilities. Iowa blue cheap night. Dinner for dinner (bad burritos). Met some people and have lost their names. Love and kisses.
Creek watercress, otherwise lightning last night, no rain. Museum of the things. No docent worth discussing. She ate cracker jacks and talked quickly. Miss you.
When a feeling goes into the air, it isn’t lying. A clan of calm members, crying. This is what the middle is like. Something else tonight. Home soon.
Dead, like stinking dead, weather. Thrown out of the bar bearing eros. Making peace to the best I can. Thinking of you and your new haircut!
A farther glove, a further shoe, the shore seems so long ago. Washed boxers in the sink with shampoo. Can’t combine to the surface of every person. Love, and some fondness.
We will not stare at that particular landscape again. Warm regards.
These numberless rumors become tiring, even just hearing about them. So far, so direct, an approach that seems certain to fail. Living in tatters, in love. Best.
Only a small window of sleep. Edged like a book cover. The debt to your face hinges on your ability to move. Swimming starts tomorrow. Back on the 10th.
Just arrived in Hampton. Beautiful! My list pinned all the zinc to the rum shop. There wasn’t a single in the whole gang. Fly fishing and rest, hopefully, tomorrow and then home on Sunday. Love like the dickens.
The first bait wakes up bitten during the night. Lotion helps half-way. The itch burns deeper for having been scratched so mindlessly. Please bring ice!
Some say the birds here sing you the weather. All I hear is calligraphy and a somewhat sweet dance. The weather’s beautiful, though. Love.
Everything falls, to pieces of pie, too many, too soon. I won’t, can’t, let you know the true count. Everything else is fine. Best to you and the kids.
Jake calls from Dallas. I don’t recall the voice, but he says it’s different because of the gout. He says a tear will melt the ice you brought, and how does he know about the ice?
The last sound spoken, at some distance, said “couldn’t it be another shade of red?” The answer is no. There is only one shade of red. Soon.
The air is sticky with memory. I count cups of coffee like past lovers. I’ve stopped taking sugar with them. Sugar makes things sticky. Until soon.
The woman in her Sunday Best told me to stop frowning, the lord above loves me and loves me and loves me and loves me and loves me and doesn’t that make me happy?
We’re visiting the outskirts. Lots of rest and good food and a little bit of walking. Going into town tomorrow. Looking forward to seeing you next week. Best.
I cannot fold you enough times to keep you in my pocket. I can only fold you once, forcing you to look the other way. Kindly.
Going to Paris in a week. Took time to figure Germany out, a little, but still can’t figure it out, all of it. Go figure. In the poor places, people were polite, used to serving others I suppose. They all hold doors open for you. Regrets & Regards.
