I can see your heart’s not in it although you’re sufficiently ambiguious. You’ve written better poems in your life before. But more than enough’s been said. You don’t need my hand any more and you can’t handle more than friendship. Go ahead and cherish my poems; go ahead and cherish my memory. I’ll leave you now with all my hope but I’ll take my brilliant landscape when I go. If you regret this drawn out ending there must be more than that you can do.
12 July 1975