To tell the truth, dearest ones, our home is
misnamed—by those mediums of Northern climates—
rather it reminds me, when I trouble
to remember, of late spring or early fall: fresh

and sunny, and when you wander the orchards,
your robe’s light, long sleeves swimming
with your motion, the trees bear fruit
and flower on the same branch—both delicious (of course

I’ve tasted the petals too; if anything I have only become
more curious, knowing now how much more there is
to learn). Or you can roll up those sleeves to do
some gentle garden work, meditative and

invigorating. We do not, of course, need a harvest to eat—hunger
is a memory, starvation a silly rumor—nor blossoms
to add more beauty. You know I never cared much
for flowers, but all beauty is meaningful here, and everything is

beautiful, and everything beautiful
can be trusted.

Those who prefer snug sweaters, the soothing of low
gray skies, the eloquence of pattering rain, dancing storms
of leaves in flaming colors, or the bittersweet
smoke of burning leaves, or the breathless sublime of blue

ice have their pleasant regions too. We visit them, travel as easy
as thought unless the adventure of a long journey is
desired; we meet on neutral ground, in cities lovely in
ways impossible for the living world—did this hand, in its

automatic pilgrimage across the page, write cities? I won’t
scold, yet it is our one disappointment, how difficult
communication has become. Communication with you,
that is, which goes back to what I am saying: how much

cannot be described. We have no language
anymore, except for fun, as when Sappho declaims
her newest compositions for us (accomplishing such things
with telepathic caesura!).

Remember, my loves—I remember with a laugh—how
archly we sneered at revelations that here
were cigars, and sex? Yes, both—and without the costs
your world imposes on them. To spare you blushes, I will

not say more. Though I must say
embarrassment is one thing I do not miss. Nor sneering.

   Sweethearts,
the most absorbing debate here is whether
the before-life ever existed, and if so, what

its purpose was. Sometimes I wish you would
leave me a token, selfishly, for the satisfaction
of proving my case to others
—within my own soul, I have faith. As to

why, well, I think the reason was
to teach us how to long for all these things we
dwell among, and could so easily take
for granted if we had not wanted

and found having them, until now, impossible. Do you read
what I am saying correctly?

[Editor’s Note: Publication of this poem was made possible by a gift from AJ Wentz during our annual Kickstarter.]