The Letter S (a Letter)

I hate to tell you this, but the curves are luge-like they bipolar their way toward springing upright at what seems the end but merely a push point for the next. How many monads rent space in your aloof head? Give us strangers a smidge of room won't you (as the fundraisers spout when it's funding week for public radio they say won't you instead of please or will you). It's sheet glass out there freezes your fast ball when the ball is you as you blaze (wrong word) down and up the path. Yesterday I lay down all day to draw (in) more energy even as I explored what lines in various colors on the page persuaded me were the directions of their lives. I live to midwife those lines and in gradually increasing distances observe them living their lives until the pencil nature of them all threads and dries and so my eyes . . . This morning I learned Aunt Shirley has lifted off and people who watched her of course are sad. Michigan is quieter and small after this after. Then a little gone I took the profusion of garbage out just as the huge loud truck was arriving and wedged my way between its thunder and the blue and black bins to make my deposit which reminds me I must withdraw legal tender tomorrow before getting my hair clipped I hope not too far it's just about perfect after five weeks from the last appointment. On this day of who-cares football despite its fun I'm spun from gravity as an encore. Purple flowers line the walkway and perhaps perfume is there I'm all the way up here moving again at something approximating lightspeed. Gilded weather we don't disclose to those in the deep cold we'll get our comeuppance come June, July, etcetera, you know the drill. My flute is snapped shut its trills no longer willowing. And the breeze brushes the sturdy upright letter S seemingly unto itself I don't say against the odds I have a peeve with that phrase essentially negative and self-congratulatory by withering beasts now cloistered in their graves only a soupcon left.