Dear muse. You may ask: why now, of all times, do I write you? By now
you know: I must maintain a certain economy. The monopoly
I have always had. On things like my unfriendliness; suffering;
the oily splay of my rubbery limbs
at each imagined corner
of the bathub. But enough
of me: how are you? I have
not been following you closely, at least
not as closely as I once did. Something
about a hedge maze? Pregnancy? Snatches
of news come down to me. Through the
usual channels, you know. But I have
not been maintaining my channels, yes. They fall to ruin.
They were too Parisian, you know? You,
you are not Parisian in that way. You are Martian.
Martian in your sheer violent connectedness. Again, you.
Back to you, how have you been? Stop.
Being so desperately mute, indecorum,
really, is not becoming on you. Black. Black is.
I have always enjoyed black things, dark things,
things upon which dark things hang elegantly.
In any case. Give my love to our mutual friends,
You will find them wrapped in sheets, blind and squat as I ever was.
Downstairs, where I used to live. Give
my love to them, give your love to them, give
in, and come.
And come and come.