Volume II Archive

Whitney Bemis

Postcards from Invisible Places, Never Sent

Friend—
Today was hotter still.  At Hadrian’s Villa I could smell the desert—everything there just dry, dry, dry.  At the Canopus a dragonfly paused over the fetid water, holding on his back a drop of sky.  No, better: his body was water made solid and given wings.  I wish you had been here to see it.

 

Friend—
If we ever fall in love, let’s get married at Villa d’Este.

 

Friend—
Just think: beneath us thick-necked Nero is flinging flower petals and spritzing the air with cologne.  Right below our feet there are roofs supporting floorboards and floors supporting nothing but themselves.  Will you promise to watch your feet while I’m away?

 

Friend—
Apparently each room in the world has its own axis.  I lined myself up with a few of these today but was left feeling unbalanced.  When I looked back through my journals, I wasn’t surprised to find the curve of your profile there between the words.  I wonder if my writing forms a straight shot between you and me.

 

Friend—
When I get home, let’s rip out the carpets.  Together we can cover the bare wooden slats with stones.