As if you could be a poet as well as the ocean. And if you could, how you would — collect not only algae, shells, and bloated green bodies— but food for us, and homes which would last. And, had peace. And, as if your errant dove flew and landed…

Poetry Sunday — There is a voice recording where you speak of corporal punishment, which you endured at Eton as a boy and just a child. Got photos too (many many) of your childhood and fatherhood—the final days— but holding them is such a haze, or a kind of craze, where heart beats fast…

Oh, Rectangle, oh!

Astonishing, really — that I sometimes forget he could craft something from wood into a sort of conduit; like the water rushing into power plants. So time in theory can be redirected into a small machine and, sitting on your nightstand, tick and tock . . . Telling stories about…

And for each petal-blast, which felt like  volcanos in a Japanese painting of spring,  contrived, you told me, gelid:

Asleep, you dreamt of lives which you had saved. In bed, had you locked the door, and had the cat been fed? And the nighttime fell on us and we slept, safe, we wept, but knew it would be A White Christmas. And you, who was shot clean through, as…

Perhaps it is my year of research, and in the privilege of my hibernation— of laying down roots in my own dry Earth — in a room of one’s own, in Spencertown, America. And perhaps the Fall will come, and we’ll head indoors where it’s warm. And yes the wallpaper…

Where far-off men in rooms — Those red white and blue — Decide what we do.

My Mother washed you.