I settle up with Mother Sugar.

My rent for the winter is one confession,

the deposit for the suit is a letter

to the man who requested I wear it.

The bell is free (my own burden).

1

To open it, is to experience an event of whiteness, what Bachelard wrote about the almond of a wardrobe’s insides. My heart is an almond, lost all its colour. Don’t come upon it suddenly, it is very jeune fille, very little fellow, not for the opening.

2

Dear [….]

I didn’t know I was a dog you didn’t want.

The dog’s religion:

You whistled and I came.