Steven Ross Smith
fluttering. 50 

for Catherine Macaulay

I was thinking of you in the Garden Flat in Moffatt, in
Scotland. that a poem might be there. out your window. or
in your wee den on your drawing table. it all seems so
distant. I was reaching for music. back to '78, Jerome
Rothenberg soaping up the silence, inviting me into the
house of  the Navajo Horse-Songs of Frank Mitchell. I long
to hear them. again. before the tones fade from my inner
ear. I think the Scots would understand them. I will write
into the void to locate them. you, across the immense blue
cosmos of the ocean could be making dinner now, listening to
Scarlatti, as your sun sets and my sun breaks through the
window and the silhouette of Gertrude Stein hovers here,
peering in. I think she's on a date with Mr. Mitchell. it's
time to unbutton her. tenderly. see her tansies. while you
gaze on winter pansies outside your door, and blue tits and
chaffinches at your feeder. you tell this in your letter.
distance and connection, when you dwell on them, are
ungraspable, though the mind travels. mine breaks out into
words. your window breaks onto the River Annan. and when
you walk, sometimes you go along the road and through the
boggy heather up Hart Fell. to the chafing wind and blue
sky. heart full. the height reached. heartfall. I have
tumbled into my house, searching for my heart. I look around
and am surprised. from here I can almost see your view. can
watch your brush strokes. do you have lilacs? Madame
Gertrude asks after this. a question of  abundance. and your

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