Dear Max, I mean dear Lord, it’s been today for a week and the frost has broken
over the Yangtze River, there’s no child nor sister nor divine mouth not pouring
themselves as vessels for the incoming grace – Spring has come between us.

I’m being dramatic here, but may the devil bloom and weep, may it soften and remember,
for even its snowdrops rise like periscopes. Or, as our blind Italian brother, who kneels
incessantly before the sky since God has turned his eyes to milk, says, L’azzurro sugli occhi.

Dear Max, I mean dear Lord, the waters are moving again and that is heavenly. I’m being told
the silkwinders are drawing light from the cocoon; I’ve received word the filament has been
assembled. Dear Max, once it wakes the ghost, it will know – again and again.

Let me tell you, we had a little party – the girls went nuts. By morning we were
a protectorate of wolves. We even listened to music and sang, as per the vertical datum.
A friend from my ex life says the woman in the song, Jolene, is death itself. Write soon.