Which is why we are friends, and i can write to you.
I've decided i write in prose. I write to say i am alive and well.
No one understands me when i write poetry. It is not madness.
I sit down on a stone, face up to the sun. Orion
Crossed the ecliptic unseen. We are blinded by days.
Beethoven, it's said, spent most of his day at the piano.
I have this stone, the valley before me, and the thought of your hair,
Long enough now i am looking through haze at it all,
And it's hard not to think, Mine, Mine. Or maybe it is.
—spun from a letter by John Weiners, and after
reading Marie Howe's "Second Childhood."
