I sent this moth-missive to Sean a few years ago, before we met. I gave my words wings to make sure they could make it north to Manchester from Oxford, a steep flight straight up the map, like flapping from the window sill to the top of the pane; sheer altitude on sheared wings.
I like the word missive. Its root ‘miss-‘ takes off into the sky: missile, mission, missing. All things that leave, take flight, or take a trip. Even missing–when you miss someone–your heart goes out to them, takes flight and finds the beloved across the great world.
My missive is written in Whitman’s words on one side, the body electric. To give the little creature a zap of locomotion, a current of energy, to keep it aloft on Whitman’s encyclopedic rhapsodizing.