Bombed-out Churches (now rebuilt)

The sewn field of France are a rumble out the window. Power lines and embankments. Churches bombed out during the Great War (now rebuilt). The Stalingrad metro station and the guitarist’s inhabiting therein. I ran out of money, and it caused me some distress. I had coffee this morning, and woke up with a sore in my throat. I should probably try to sleep more. I tend to wake up drenched in my own sweat. Shower. Too many fucking showers. The water is warm but leaves my skin dry and cracked. I did Laundry in a hostel, sent a letter (the third one in three days), and boarded a train.
So has been these days dripping with exhaustion. The maddened rush to “See!” “See!” “See!” left my legs in quite a state. I long for the smooth neck of my guitar. I long for lugging it in its heavy plywood case down the East Coast to Connecticut to visit you. I long for my sappy music and my car with the broken rear window that I kept held up with blue painter’s tape for months. I long for American air in the springtime, thick with pollen and accented by vanilla whenever I am close to you.
To sleep in one of these days might be a blessing. To be like the bed that breathes, and the girl who kept her curtain drawn every day and never seemed to leave the hostel. The air of her presence was the breathing, and the occasional giggle or one half of a phone conversation.
But I’m running from France now, fast as I can. Out of money, and unsure about the temporal concerns that hover off the coast like lurking submersibles. I’m on my way to run the gauntlet with a shallow draft. Minesweeper rejoice. The waves are gentle tumbleweeds to the shores of Martha’s Vineyard (where my love and I might someday travel back upon the crests of the salt spittle).