Letter to a Friend, Unsent

I haven't written        in a while because I don't want to talk about anything I've been unable to stop thinking about: the knotted thread of bad capillaries on my retinae, money, or that my morning was ruined by the unusual tightness of jeans around my thighs, like the obligations of having a body so ill-fitting, oppressively snug around an obstinate will. And while       I don't want to be distracted from this Duchamp thing I've been working on—     I am itched out of reverie over and over again by this feeling I don't deserve my raptures anymore. So I'm sorry. I don't want to bring you down. It's unfair to have to hear about needles and envelopes and flies when you might just have been enjoying an iced tea outside and when I would prefer to tell you, really, there's a family of pheasant living in the massive cottonwood we call the Tree of Life. The male's red, green, gold plumage makes him look like a Christmas present I would want to give you. So except “I hope you're well,” that's all.