To My Dead Ones
Forgive me. I’ve not written lately. This is the dried fig world where as you may remember there’s a general shriveling. Yesterday one of my still living friends telephoned to say a pipe beneath his house has broken and he has to dig through cement in his basement. Upstairs his children were laughing. In every group there’s the woman or man who has to go into the dark and dig. What digging do they do in heaven? Do you scoop ideas from starlight like Beethoven when he was old? Or do you sit perfectly still, good just arriving like mustard blossoms? Of course you understand I don’t really want to know. As with everyone still here it will be different for each of us. I like to imagine we’ll get to leave our shovels behind.
Planet of the Blind 