Dear Wigleaf,

My wife buys figs for dinner. Without a picture, this postcard is a telegram. I'm writing this all on my hand. I'm building a fort from the books I adore. I'm standing dramatically in the middle. Is this a metaphor, I ask, and if so, why? The sword in our junk drawer is a toothpick. We need it. I start again:

I'm tearing out the back page of my favorite book of poems, the page after the family names and the acclaimed journals, the page after the font and the factory, the page after where there's nothing at all, and I'm painting gray the front and I'm covering the front in petals, can you smell the lavender meadows? Here's a can of citrus candle. I will wait for the front to dry and I will write to you on the back and I will mail it to you in a bag right next to your most favorite of games.