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   i i i.    t h e    m a i l o m i l e

--- M A C G R E G O R   C A R D

Letters have went mother's way, to Rome, smallest cloud of false snow on record, the letter is opera confetti. Like rotary phones, mother and showmanship, postmen have

"gone to Rome," NEITHER SNOW NOR RAIN NOR GLOOM OF NIGHT SHALL STAY THESE COURIERS FROM SWIFT COMPLETION OF THEIR APPOINTED ROUNDS. Friends, very much so, lonesome though, greet each parcel with "some funny anthem" or a song. And so jurisprudence or romance proper- by what name can a province of letters be known? Look how the letter is topiary, bushes for hands if you go there, "you are heavy duty and merit well, though quit stroking me with your bushes for hands"-beloveds to Romans. Face it, I know this nice acropolis in dullsville, indoor mile for the lent of mirth I'll take us, knowing well itŐs seasonal and defunct, a runner shoed in felt. Look how an envelope dims over the years, lustres out and goes back.

Better romance with the judgement of our dead goes back. That ever there was even a casing for all that necromancy. That a roof-raising, ever, even a street address.

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