Dear _____,

Love?

I don't know how to explain further without building an ancient toy.

Fog received nobody.
Today.
But winter.

As many holes are dreams in musical instruments other than books. It ended.

He grows, draws off separated freaks.

He stands in a field eating popcorn,
looking down at swans college kids have spray-painted blue in the night.

He's smiling.

The red knows something about its redness.

Surely the painter believed that.

Reindeer thrift precludes me talking to you further.

I marry the winter and its splendid headwound.