The horizon lies over the road to Lausanne and the succulent fields like a guillotine and the moon bleeds over the water and you are not so far away that I can’t smell your hair in the drying breeze. The moon slips into the mountains like a lost penny and the fields are black and pungent and I want you so near so that I could touch you in the autumn stillness even a little bit like the last echo of summer. And you ‘phoned and said I had written something that pleased you and so I don’t believe I’ve ever been so heavy with happiness. “Goofy, my darling, hasn’t it been a lovely day? I woke up this morning and then sun was lying like a birth-day parcel on my table so I opened it up and so many happy things went fluttering into the air: love to Doo-do and the remembered feel of our skins cool against each other in other mornings like a school-mistress.
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