Scene II. October 2, 1958
A deviser of territories
when there are none.
No language. No territory. No work to do.
No yellow yellow ribbons.
Then a storm. Nothing to tie down. Love letters to follow:
I think the universe. Delicious rye flour. Can’t season the
sun with salt.
I think the universe. No gulf. The boots are dry. I think salt
I am certain it is our own. How could it be another?
I am thinking about territories, sediment, the alphabet. I think
we are footprints. What time? Is it invincible? Jer’ sz.
it’s time to git out of the biz’. Head shots enclosed.
My wife heard a whistling wail shatter the silence of the wilderness
night. Don’t FAX, write! Please dispose of this telegraph.
Don’t flinch when I mention the invisible. It is best for