Dina and Dan Make A Map

They write letters. They are not good letters. Yet they are not bad letters. They write as if they had been writing for a long time. When the time comes to finish, they begin again, and discover among themselves their seriousness in beginning. They had been committed to finishing. They had been falling toward a ground while flying away from it. You'll see it when you get there they said. And what if nothing happens? And what if what they say about us ceases to be true? And what if we are moving while they're speaking, and what if they don't see it when they get there, to the end of their speech, so in effect, they never get there? What then? If they begin one way for a long time and then think of another way. What of this newer way, recently thought of? Are there any words but your failure of them, and if there are no sources for the ways they want to go? They write from feeling the top of their heads coming off. Along the way, they will feel the way, and feel themselves going toward where they had always imagined they were going. They are not bad letters. But they are not good. How could they know? This is purpose under intense heat. A dreadful pause. They write of their purposes changing. When someone stops them and asks them what they are doing, the heat of their interlocutor's eyes. What for do you mean: or, How now? In truth, this is purpose, this a conspirator's lament, a man looking for microscopes in a catalogue. They think it's them who wants them to quit. Is taking to sea a possible way? This is the way under blankets of seawater. Under consideration, the clouds stretch, as if on a loom, and the winds weave and unweave the clouds under duress. Under duress, they write of clouds. Now it is to scold themselves for writing letters about clouds. They write about clouds as if they had been writing about clouds for a long time. Now it is to feel themselves writing about clouds. Now it is to feel clouds.