But a Storm is Blowing From Paradise

Regards, from Middle Country

14 Regards, from Middle Country ∞ Let me speak on what I can. This deerland's a whole new knowing. Can't wiggle fingers at your waist call it a skirt. The train barely bothers a howl through town. Corn confers in the thinnest of winds a hum divine. On burn days every bit of breath a shallower canyon a horse the poorer for it. Vision occurs in the brain not the chatty eyes. Live lonesome for a moon illusion you sit with awhile and still see wrong. 15 ∞ What rubs between the skirted legs of the girl on the bike blinds like a gun shot over the fields as she lifts it. What if not space holds together fingers. Ask the rock quarry can you ignore the splitter at your walls? Could it say you would not know it. The tea begs milk me sugar. 16 ∞ Route YY, mile marker XXX, photograph this predictable sundown, scolding through those windows so predictably missing their panes. When you leave here, leave in a flashy car and wave goodbye—photograph that clapboard barn & those grey geese dripping field marsh down on us as they fly the hell out of this year. In a letter to you before my mind was off the birds, I wrote exact what I saw: they flew the hell out of this year. ...