Letter

A long time ago
when the trees were learning to be green again
you wrote in a humid, high summer
saying you would be in England's grey cold
so soon from now. Unless Australia's
next season of sun, its summer Christmas,
holds you more than legal bindings,
or that old address is not the place to write,
or the unions repair their broken threat,
Hi!

image: po

Dylan Harris
84-85

it's my hands
my difficulty with melancholy
hence the coldness
fear in flight, god
dog sea
push pop
all
publish

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