BELOVED,
you gather me. I am not petals, though I have eaten wildflowers on greens in that glow particular to the other planet, as Miłosz described it, that is California, where I walked through salt and fog and found Mary enshrined in chalk on a gash of rock and watched the waves devour themselves ’til my phone died, so that I was forced to rely on the generosity of strangers, and I did take a photo later of said plate, marveling while sending it to you from the aloneness I’d traveled there to make something out of. Please send a photo of your face. Is it not my purpose to see where, exactly, laughter has rivered around the eyes I adore? There was a donkey in Petaluma with a soft, steady gaze. I will not turn away from the ache of this world. I’m trying to feel my feet. Let’s cry enough to submerge, up to our ankles at least. Don’t keep your grief from me.
