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"sir, kruger; writing from -" scratched ink. blue. 12:34 P.M. expresso saviente damuer; a postal on miller simmons street, J-143EB, paces left to rue-vo-baurel, paris. newspaper stocks, french country. 
(typewriter sounds) 

*
"the royalty is upset now, mrs. bailey. and you are out here with your fading novel;" to wherever she carried.

looming winters in europe. they were subtle; this cold, although vague. a scarf wouldn't suffice. but it was comforting; winter was tranquil.
we heard distant swings from the playground south, and the clouds obscured in gray."these bricks have bore my name" i looked down on his knuckles. bruised. they were still swollen. a little red, slight pink; laura bandaged them the other day.

(1963-09-01)

*
*

her mustard, silk top slid from her white shoulders; 
the windows glared in tints from primary. pollen was afloat;
and the sun shone through in rays, blessed;
shaped an incandescence ball, your beloved, mrs. bailey - 
"dare be; for how you love, dear; - you are fiercly noble;"

she shrieked in sudden, shivers! my heart shattered,
in a million recurrences;

glanced with tears brimming; welling forth;
streaming down her marrowed crevices, of a wooden, maiden heart; 

for the pale had blinded, and her face borne eclipsed.