- He sits to write this letter for a friend.
He, he writes too. His friend, altho not a close
friend, lives in Berkeley now, which makes this
letter more necessary. Calling himself him, and
Stephen a friend, helps, if only to recognize the
distance. (Time out. He re-reads “He was,” by David
Bromige. See Sparrow 4.)
- This letter is not immediate. Altho he tries to
mediate the distance, his friend must wonder about his
character. His weeks have flown, and now minutes
correct his form. With an envelope, a stamp,
handling, and a few days, these very words . . . But
his friend must know the story. The words get
out of hand, and he loses elevation, not for lack
of air, but for want of wings. He wanders on by
himself, trying not to let his friend down, too.
- What are the grounds? They are discoverable.
Try falling from the third story. He will find it at
the end, near the foundations. Altho this is only fiction,
yet the friction of the fantasy rubs out a definite
object. It grinds over all objection. What it finally
leaves are the grounds.
- Tom Sharp
6 May 1974