“I love you,” the letter said,
“with the force of every tuft of wheat,
poking its head through the tilled earth
of middle America,
outside all the dakkas in Russia,
and the villas of Italy.”
It’s a letter I’ll never forget,
Even when I lose it in the mountains
Of papers invading my bed.
“I love you”, it said, and it meant it.
(A letter has no self-interest)
Can’t fucking beat that, can you.
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