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Easter and “I don’t like alotta action in the pulpit” but the lights go on, ceilings burn and the dead stay where they are. O those expert carcasses, tomorrow gets the business in this epic of sleep and horror where one is in want of only two things: enter bedroom smell the effort ** Dear Jim, The fine, fluent motion of the mail lulls me to sleep. I sleep with the window open. I sleep like a man alone. A lighthouse goes dark. I am at the end of my rope. I have eaten my horse, my bird, rats, and my woman. I am really at the end of my rope. I go into the gallery swollen with Italians. I see you down there from here. It is what they call “morning” and old men sing to make a city out of the miraculous. *** Dear Jim, Being young since morning you may vary your days elegantly dressed in pigeon blood loafers; the mailman and his logic arrive with the packet. A sweet wind coming in. The lake. A cup of wine. She’s asleep, hasn’t taken in a thing since Iowa, its tickled women and a garden gate. **** Dear Jim, Everything has gotten bigger since yesterday. Near the park, the tomb sits behind a flock of cormorants; slow barges extend the circle without blemish. I will never make it to your house.
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