Dear Miss Emily

    I knew the end would be gone before I got there.

    After all， all rainbows lie for a living.

    And as you have insisted， repeatedly，

    The difference between death and the Eternal

    Present is about as far as one

    Eyelash from the next， not wished upon.

    Rainbows are not forms or stories， are they？

    They are not doors ajar so much as far-

    Flung situations without true beginnings

    Or any ends——why bother——unless， as you

    Suggest——repeatedly——there's nothing wrong

    With this life， and we should all stop whining.

    So I shift my focus now on how to end

    A letter. In XOXOXO，

    For example， Miss， which are the hugs

    And which the kisses？ Does anybody know？

    I could argue either way： the O's

    Are circles of embrace， the X is someone

    Else's star burning inside your mouth；

    Unless the O is a mouth that cannot speak，

    Because， you know， it's busy.

    X is the crucifixion all embraces

    Are， here at the nowhere of the rainbow's end，

    Where even light has failed its situation，

    Slant the only life it ever had，

    Where even the most gallant sunset can't

    Hold back for more than a nonce the rain-laden

    Eastern sky of night. It's clear. It's clear.

    X's are both hugs and kisses， O's

    Where stars that died gave out， gave up， gave in——

    Where no one meant the promises they made.

    Oh， and one more thing. I send my love

    However long and far it takes——through light，

    Through time， thorough all the faithlessness of men，

    James Augustin Galvin，

    X，

    His mark.