A Faithful Account of Where I Live: The Letters of Cid Corman and William Bronk

22 April 69

Dear Cid,

An evening walk along the canal, the first of the season and rushing the season a little since it was black dark when I got back. But all blue haze at first and then softest green, then murky grey-Edwardian-Rembrandt dry-point. At Sherman's farm, the swamp overflowing and the no color last year's cattails hovering over the brown water like apparitions of the dead. The dump was afire, flames as ecstatic against the dark sky as though they were the last fire. And the monster president there, the big earth-mover machine, came out of a hidden road, lights fore and aft and sideways, blinking and moving, and climbed the towpath along the five combines in front of me-I docilely following like the Brownies behind the drum corps in the parade.

Two new poems: ["The Aggrandizement: A Short Road That Has no Turnoff" and "The Use-Unuse of Us"]

Rain. Cold. Peas up in the garden; and beets. Rhubarb thriving. The lawn green. Daffodils and grape hyacinths in blossom.

My love


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