So Going Around Cities

to Doug & Jan Oliver “I order you to operate, I was not made to suffer.” Probing for old wills, and friendships, for to free to New York City, to be in History, New York City being History at that time.” “And I traded my nights for Intensity; & I barter my right to Gold; & I’d traded my eyes much earlier, when I was circa say seven years old for ears to hear Who was speaking, & just exactly who was being told….” & I’m glad I hear your words so clearly & I would not have done it differently & I’m amused at such simplicity, even so, inside each & every door. And now I’m with you, instantly, & I’ll see you tomorrow night, and I see you constantly, hopefully though one or the other of us is often, to the body-mind’s own self more or less out of sight! Taking walks down any streets, High Street, Main Street, walk past my doors! Newtown; Nymph Rd (on the Mesa); Waveland Meeting House Lane, in old Southampton; or BelleVue Road in England, etcetera Other roads; Manhattan; see them there where open or shut up behind “I’ve traded sweet lines for answers …” They don’t serve me anymore.” They still serve me on the floor. Or, as now, as floor. Now we look out the windows, go in & out the doors. The Door. (That front door which was but & then at that time My door). I closed it On the wooing of Helen. “And so we left schools for her.” For She is not one bit fiction; & she is easy to see; & she leaves me small room For contradiction. And she is not alone; & she is not one bit lonely in the large high room, & invention is just vanity, which is plain. She is the heart’s own body, the body’s own mind in itself self-contained. & she talks like you; & she has created truly not single-handedly Our tragic thing, America. And though I would be I am not afraid of her, & you also not. You, yourself, I, Me, myself, me. And no, we certainly have not pulled down our vanity: but We wear it lightly here, here where I traded evenly, & even gladly health, for sanity; here where we live day-by-day on the same spot. My English friends, whom I love & miss, we talk to ourselves here, & we two rarely fail to remember, although we write seldom, & so must seem gone forever. In the stained sky over this morning the clouds seem about to burst What is being remembering Is how we are, together. Like you we are always bothered, except by the worst; & we are living as with you we also were fired, only, mostly, by changes in the weather. For Oh dear hearts, When precious baby blows her fuse / it’s just our way of keeping amused. That we offer of & as excuse. Here’s to you. All the very best. What’s your pleasure? Cheers.