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

15 July 68

Dear Cid,

Too hot tonight to walk so I sit on my porch where a little air stirs though it is warm air.

Your apprehension that a toy might offend me amused me because I was reminded of the wooden tops I found irresistable last spring in Madeira and the toy horse I brought home years ago from Chichicastengango past the pleading eyes of children who wanted to beg it away from me and the beautiful little black clay whistles I bought by the handful from some market near Odxaca and gave to children here only to have them stomped on or thrown down to fracture. No, the only toys I dislike are the toys for grown boys you aren't likely to send me: cowboy boots and skimobiles and motorcycles and shotguns-that kind of thing.

The Rabbits devour my garden and what is there that doesn't hasten to waste and gibberish? But I love the summer, the warm days. Mixed in the grass now in the green fields the tall coarse flowers are blossoming, daisy and yarrow and Queen Anne's lace, red clover and vervain and a pink thistle with delicate fine blossoms and even pinker-suffused and intent in its pinkness-milkweed. Milkweed. Vervaine. Yarrow. I say their names to praise them. Corman. I say your name. Thank god! You are there.

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