Dear Tom

All day happy yet a needless fuddle and lack of a game plan and place tonight has put me into a dark stink wooden funk. Silly indulgent and pleased to admit it, I hope for a note that you tried to call. What is this? Look at the clock; imagine a lover. Always expecting dreams but accepting: shoes, the reversal fails to amuse. For all my hope, I could have written that note myself.

22 January 1980