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The question is broached: who are the entries addressed to? Who inhabits the “you” which ripples through this series of rubble, successive reaches toward what is without use, small piles of picking up the day and trying to explain it to someone. Articulation is not what I am after, even though it is my material and form. Rather than fixity, I’m interested in direction: the opening in language which moves out toward you and you and you—and still somehow misses. I’m interested in that redoubled missing. What I am after is the excess of the afterward, the walk home, the dinner on a whim, what might be possible over coffee or sandwiches or in our shared frustration in a lack of instruction. I’m interested in the way that in my loneliness, writing to you makes something possible, even if it is an impossible destination and in truth isn’t even you. This is a kind of sensemaking that remakes writing toward a distance which calls itself missing.

T. Fleischmann: “Let’s go to where the mail goes when it’s in the mail, waiting to get to your house.”

Roger Reeves: “What war / keeps me from saying Please, please / do not wash your hair tonight. / We are still trying to find each other.”