To the sole and morbid clerk, who retires at six-o’-clocks to her bare two-rooms-worth; to her morbid interests, clippings: “Girl Thrown Through Gallery Window At Green St. T." To her morbid interests, her correspondence, the things she catches and the things she misses, to her nights and how she closes them (rubbing her neck with her thumbs, club soda)—I’ve omitted giving her token in person but if she finds this, the better—
-2003
