His letters made the biography I had read atmospheric,
bluish. Distant access.
As if the writer were permitted to read only press releases.
A generation of writers is embarrassed.
The bland composite photo they posted is embarrassing;
his letters show real criminality.
Clearly he did not let them through but entertained them
in the tavern or in calling cards,
in places where "social privacy" is.
The same hand that really is the immigrant
carries the pose, perhaps even to his sister.
Perhaps, like everything else, primary sources are premeditated:
the episodic hills,
the credentials of nature with which he covered himself,
allowing seed pods like small glass bottles of cologne
to absorb him, putting faith into
his meeting with Breton,
who in the introduction to the catalogue
said his forms are analogical-
gradually nature taking on protective coloring.
Meanwhile he pleads to be accepted the way he is.
Personal letters are like a greenhouse.
They step into the garden to have a word with you.
They speak, they touch your arm.
You vow to go away together.
The extravagant humidity lasts from cover to cover,
and personality is palpable.
They touch upon the situation.
