allelographia iv

What is your substance, whereof are you made

That millions of strange shadows on you tend?

Since everyone hath, every one, one shade

And you, but one, can every shadow lend.

W. Shakespeare

i write to you from a great heat

so dense no lie can pass through

and this i hope means there may be a truth

one must have failed to see

when the time was right

but this is nothing to write about

all is well only 

words become strangers

or old acquaintances one hopes never to bump into again

one wishes to be in a foreign land

but everywhere is home

where the parting hurts

here a great heat envelops us

and we are thankful

to have something constant to fight off

but evenings are sweet

and sticky and there is also music

and people's voices come in from the window

in a beautiful uproar which means nothing

i wish you would also write to me

about what people say

outside your window

and also about the temperature

the humidity the wind

the stars and also the trees and your dreams

if you remember them

but i understand there are things to be done

and time is pitiless 

here is a great heat

one could say it feels like we're in a pit and

how should i begin to spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways¹

but what i meant to ask is

do you still wear the sea

like you used to do

and vanish

i do not remember much 

other than this

sincerely.

1. T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufock