I write to you as though you are a desolate bird whose soul has not yet jigged itself from the air boats braid it to. And through their wake, we are tangled and knotted and empty buoys that seem to boil the city and we drive by the shores of mansions foaming from the ground; giant insects whose naked muteness slowly dilates into the sky.  I see that you want to be here, with the rest of us, though your smallness resembles the speckled, floating-away dandelions of fish, and the high, thin lined thoughts of birds, and places, so dotted in destination, I cannot give. Therefore, what else can worthlessness offer but worthlessness in a beautiful stone, as always been done:

The heart is the bottom of a well
and the rain dreams of a thousand arrows
filling a cup you pour for me,
Your lips begin to say nothing