Postcards From Texas #6
by david moses fruchter
Date: Wed, 24 Jun 1998 23:12:35 -0500

one side of the postcard bears an inkblot of deepest indigo --
the shape of the blot is unclear, for the eye is captured in a
near-instant by the dark, oily, viscous well of it, and there is
no escape.  the postmark reads, "Recherché, Texas."  the other
side reads:
 

By the time you read this, it may not be too late.  I would not
have it any other way.  I hope you don't, and more fervently hope
you won't -- but you know what I will say about that.  At least
here the variations stick around, like leaves that turn color, fall
off the branch, and are placed again on that same branch, or
another.  The mad wind of replacement.  Now they turn color
again, back into green, but it is not the same green they left.

Twin oppressive burdens, the notions that nothing adds up and
that everything does, disappear without effort under a program
of rearrangement.  Nothing is lost or gained but order.  The
thing is not, though, about equivalence, unless it be some
vague sense of a universal zero-sum game.  Rather, it is the shape of
a life built on its own foundation, built on keepsaking the
past, built without a discard pile.  It is the shape of return.

As a sphere is to a point, so to a sphere.  I will see you
again.