I never skim love letters.
Instead, the wrists of the blindfolded author are surrendered and tied to the cold, plastic chair arm. One wonders if the cosmos delight in the slow assessment of frame and slant and helpless solicitation. Perhaps the collective is just hungry enough for a show. How obsessively I drink in the way its body breathes, shaking a little as I stand over the lap of intention. You already know where I begin, yes? The neck bends both away and towards, ever so peaked beneath the breath of sublime titles. Each word demands its own pause. Then all together, the full calamity of murderous sentences unleashes the DNA of the sender. We all spill for gravity.
It's too hot for this far north. The begonias bleed all over the back porch and the lavender spires of hosta blooms are now anchors thrown aside under the heat's oppressive command. I stay inside because melty me takes hours to reconstitute.
Butternut squash, curried, over brown rice. A side of ginger tea. Summer gathers a fullness of flavor which tastes best in immediate consumption.
So it is with this life. One bread. One body. One elongated missive of love.