Dear John

How have you been? Did the days and seasons follow you there? Do clouds come casual and soft, like lilacs, or do they seem to want to always murder you some more? Are there any profound valleys nearby, like you went to in Wyoming---rivers or streams perfect for your casting and delivery? Do you still have that sharp pain in your arm from when you fell off the roof? How about the floaters in your eyes? Were they, in truth, just the ghosts you couldn't avoid, especially your mother? Can you get a sense the whole story now? Do you miss your sailboat, its incalculable worth caught in golden sunlight? Do you miss your deepest pulse? And does the scent of that one young bartender's perfume yet float for you---still make you want to roll around in the dirt like a dog?

it gives me chills,

the sound of a tin cup

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