But Miss Dickinson

Let us talk then about anger, here in the basement. Onions fried in butter, later buried in pizza. That poem, the earlier one.

Or else what? Drinking tea all morning, trying to sort through a complicated metaphysics, only to be told it's all bullshit. It's the same way with publishing.

Mice watch from the foundation birm, nervous but oddly stable. Yesterday turtles, divorced from traditional symbolism. You write well but don't know when to stop.

We are as characters in a play that was penned long ago. For Christ's sake. Sublimation begets what?

More quartz, dust, dried flower petals blowing over the driveway. Emptied, he wrote. Dreams of Saint Benedict and nudity abound.

Your duality is not mine. Moss crept up the tree trunks, a steady green tide bent on silence. It's the fear of hunger that drives us to words.

Oh but Miss Dickinson is not seeing visitors today. Shuffle on then to Buffalo.