Letter to Jacob, 5/30/09

The smell of patchouli oil
and cigarette smoke
hanging in the humid air,
dusk, summer and
a Missoula that yawns towards the sea.

It's not half bad here, Jacob; my road bike is holding up fine; much better than my skin. There is no sunburn for bikes (there is also no drunkenness). Yesterday I saw a butterfly. Are Mormons allowed butterflies? Even my bike one day will depart. it's parts will be buried in the bike graveyard (death is free) and diffused into many bicycles; diffusion and all its horror! One day it will be evenly diffused among all bikes.

Elm samaras blow into my window
they land on my sheets,
in-between my computer's keys,
on my hardwood floor
even so; they are not wasted (if I say so)
"How now? a rat?" - it is myself.
It says, "what a divinely silly mood."

I'm going down to the sea
and there there there there'll be
no difference between the sky the sea and me
and to that strange country
where there are starfishes
and moonfishes
and milky way whales
sharks and snails
mountains of coral
forests of kelp
mermaid caves and meadows of clams;
the sea can be a mirror (and vice versa)
and there there there there'll be
no difference between the sky the sea and me!

I reread your portfolio today; I miss your lilac shoes and your swimming ballet; didn't you take them with you, or are they locked up in my basement? among the teacups and microwave...
All you have left here awaits you return.
Your friend,
Ross