Weather patterns keep us connected, late spring. The
South. Were you aware I met your monsoon? Were you
aware—the blue the rain and a typed response—I thought
it varied. The response. But the letters were frozen. Or
the freeze was lettered. We tend to speak quickly: outline all
passed and planned, embellish, re-plot my coordinates: maybe
I lament a little of me and less of you, maybe the difference is
distance, waking in shifts—