I'm sorry I have neglected to write to you. There are stars here whose matters are more pressing than my own, probably because of their own gravity.
The magnets against my steel file cabinet have impressed upon me some secret: the yellow of the room I just painted is code for a childhood fault.
The brown of the living room turns blue at sunset. We did not paint the room blue, though some things seek their own form.
I've turned up the hallway rug and found the chemicals of a previous cat.
The basement is awash with the run-off of Summer rain. We've had to save many boxes of poetry. Some of you would mistake this as character building. It is not. Paper is sacred. Being sacred, we cannot put them to our mouths . . . though I had a dog, once, with a fondness for Phillip Levine.
Dear You, I'm sorry for losing track of time, as I am losing track of my many books. I am in a room with boxes, all of them talking to me at once. So forgive me if I cannot hear you.