Dear John

I think of you less often, though certainly in double negative: not never,
a reversal if I ever intended one. The cards reveal the following: 3 of wands,
the lovers, 5 of pentacles. I am constant in my extrapolation of preordination,
a kind of destine beyond, peace of passing, all that spiritual shit. There is far less
of me to go around these days, far less of me to deduce, repurpose, even lesser still
as the days go on. When I drop the fantasy, what remains: a simple day’s time, slog
and infestation, my body through the world, how many wigs I can wear,
anything to feel differently. So here is my list of the bounty:
Steven sent me a recording he took of birds in West Virginia,
deep listening in deep grief, halfway a train whistle and I cried;
Danielle’s birthday, an ancient commemoration I will find every lifetime;
zero pain in my body (worth notating),
my heart breaking piece by piece (continuation of the same),
my desire waning (new),
war criminals and pedophiles, bombing and capitalism (also more of the same),
and finding it harder to try, though I’m sure I will (always the sadist, never the masochist).