Bottled Letter #3


In this today I am a bambino and you are a gazelle who discovers me in the woods and doesn’t understand. I went away today out beyond the night on my own feet, until a streetcar hauled me from the dark. I kept saying ‘wow’, and crying out. The wind whipped by — moss fell under the wheels. He said he was a rally driver – the red seat thumped to iron music. A huge beach which he pointed at and said ‘we race horses there to celebrate God. It’s a tradition of ours’.

Cut now to my glowing, silver cross, which cuts before me through the murky streets. I round a corner and see trees – huge, palmy green fronds on their white stone friends yes extending up out down the road in all directions. The neon pizza signs kissing the leaves all close and scraggly round the edges. I run across the road and headlights flurry from the gloom and miss me.

The crisp, sharp beer evaporates while children, beaming, funk around their chairs. For free a plate of sausages is brought to my high table where I slipslide eyes on books I am too drunk to read. The lamps are right — in my eyes, lighting up my hair on colour. Without enough money, knowingly, I point to my glass for another. The present tense paws me up and rewards me, and so it goes that I came home just the same. There is nothing so fake as a bad decision — there are only chairs, and love on the chairs, and tomato juice.

A man runs at me and screams my name. I have been recognised and at first I think it is you. It is a stranger, dear Lorenzo. He gestures to his car and I don’t know what it means. I get in the car. He said he was a rally driver, see. One eye on nothing, one up in the air, we speed around the tiny roads, half-hanging from the cliff edge like we want to die. And we say the word, ‘London’, in hushed whispers as the water wets the rockroad and we slip and slide just out of sight of falling. I don’t mind. When a beautiful woman gets in the car, red lipstick, no English, I know I will die tonight. Yet if you turn time forward you will find me clambering out near home, begging to walk the rest of the way. They drive to Heaven. I unlock the gate and put one foot in front of the other. Short walk, but halfway something taps my collar.

Stopped, frozen in the night I dance with summer flies. The moon is so clear that I can see the notmoon, the moon unlit, just from the tiny bit of unseen light that unseen mugs around the edges of it. The whole white, and the sliver, separate from one another, tapestried here a mad distance from any other. I’ve seen the moon before. My eyes open out to tiny globes and stare, like unstalked roseblooms fallen from a basket – laying there. The stars are brighter than I’ve ever seen – laid down on black, no dirt or mud on it. A thousand beaming, lightning stars, so diamond in the void nightwaiting dark. I do believe this is the most light lit the lightless hour ever is. Every inch of sky is stars in Heaven. Every inch too close to me is trees. The redblack distant house marks out my path – my head tracks upwards stars and stars and stars. I make a sound with my throat.

If you follow my footsteps to the house you’ll find me. I am wearing underpants, and looking at photos of you on a laptop. With your name on them a bottle of water, a bedside table, and a long apology are somewhere around here,

[The name is easily readable.]

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