The letter opened
— by magic or unknown forces —
before I got it: the money I needed to go
gone. My bicycle like wisteria
leaning on the railings at home.
There, after my flight of fancy
as you called it, or
leap of faith. There and there — metaphysically,
in spirit. Tethered to such
slim wit. 'A cone that
buds into a bulb of fleshy leaves'
Michael Haslam wrote: 'There
may well be philosophies composed
of layers around
an absent centre: they don't, however, describe
the onion but an old and worn
symbolic platitude': too ghostly to bear inscription,
affording no sympathy.