O my you are a very wieners-bird & how we loved yr late straight hands that’s straight like having minimum curves with which to hop onto his un-american made bed to another. The baby jesus got you gripped wieners-bird he’s been licking yr rosy head again & that. Don’t go away from me sometime. I wanted to write a poem strictly about yr working heart but you are done now hiding in the thistles of polk st & I know nothing of these bright California bus stations. The world continues even round the wieners-bird. Again the tight heads of small flowers turn in summer.