The Roses Frank, why did you not render the sun? Your father, feeling in Venice, all the time. You were wonderful. But your weather gave abstraction no vestige, the cooler air of metaphor lost. Making you royal again, the language you spoke built need out of the final Camel, up until the last drink. I Fall in Love With Old Rimbaud He is dancing with stars— but not the kind that you find where ice turns into Kanye. Then again, maybe I’m not in love, or what do you know about horses? I kept all my letters. Then I jumped into the world where there is nothing that is not what it is, only figs hiding on the internet. The world is large— the children know what it means, but love is not a funny mythography or a ball of new twine, difference peeled around me. Suddenly, I wake to a text from my sister and then my friend says he left his place for a country and I think it’d be great to do that where I am. Why are you keeping your letters, if you’re k...