Three prisoners get a hold of guns
They kill their jailer and grab the prison keys
They come running out of their cells and kill four guards in the courtyard

You said if you write me
Don’t type everything
Add a line in your own hand

Books
There are books that talk about the Panama Canal
I don’t know what the card catalogs say
And I don’t pay any attention to the financial pages

Christ
Here it’s been more than a year since I thought of You

Noon
Midnight
Shit is said in all the corners of the universe

There are books filled with nothing but descriptions of sunsets

Down in the valley you see that telegraph line whose rectilinear path cuts through the forest on the mountain across the way
All the poles are made of iron

The guillotine is the masterpiece of plastic art

Around here the countryside is one of the most beautiful in North America
The immense sheet of the lake is an almost white blue

I’m dying from the heat in my cabin and I can’t air it out for fear of exposing my little family of little animals to the air current
Too bad