Psst. This is just for you, whoever you are, and not for any of the others. I am so excited by the possibility that you will be the one to read this that I cannot contain myself any longer. 

Two girls like angels enthroned beside urns blessed us with coffee. They had made a little sign with the prices neatly lettered. Everything was clear—they had made all the decisions.

How exactly does one soothe the savage breast? Surely not only with music—and if, indeed, with music, with what kind of music, then? Gypsy lullabies, whale song, Gregorian chants, two-part inventions?

A simple statement like “Void where prohibited”—
How shall I read it?
How shall I think it?

Leo where are you now?
Playing at some two-bit carnival in Altoona?
Married to your fat pink lady from the Bowery?

It's always the same:
the perfect vellum messages of sympathy from The Best
                          Magazines,
the snippets of bright paper scrawled “Sorry”—