Dearest Nat,
       My Feuding Pseudopodia,
       My ‘apparent’ legs,

I send forth thin licra-like filaments to your spent parts.
Carting a hearty wish that they are received briny - are shined upon supine,
nestled and jostled with a fork tine’s alignments

    as fatal a cradle that is

After all, “being intelligible is not what it seems”.

It’s creamier  -   Has been ‘creamed’     & violently ‘creamed’ again


Thus tussle-fogged, it offers up toggles that we neither expect nor can necessarily cathect.
    All had - a glad enough distance.

            A discrepancy of fancy.

In your glancing, please don’t fail to accept this advancing swoon of gratitude for your most recent and moony letter. Its exquisite weblike patters and smatter of thoughtful inquiries into my latest debilitating spate of a ‘research project’ were like thick biscuits upon an oft over- quickening stomach. I know you wonder - even worry - about the dry-docked nature of these self-imposed ventures that I so readily and lengthily get swallowed by. The burial by submersion is a legitimate reality and thus genuine bin for concerns, but so too is the livelier clamoring at ‘study’ as both docent thought-salve and potent bi-valve to a pearlier means of being. A position quite agreeing with how the permission and skepticism alike that your mind kites, glide in each so sorely needed.
                            A sedulously sought feeding.

                            A broadly kneaded and pried dough.
                          (** see the spectacular hirsute sample below**)





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