for Mary McBride

The wind blows, freedom don’t. In this room it’s rudeness, she tells me that gets things out in the air. I want to think, about the separation that I have no name for there are things out there but only ideas in here I know, I see the walls, define this space, as my place but deeper, I tell her to open the windows and let me breathe. How am I going to say what’s going on out there? but talking so she interrupts me.

18 November 1974