Letter to Humphrey Bogart,Already Far Away
Te windowsare allclosed. No door openswhen it rings. Isthis house empty?It’s February, it’sMarch, it’s April: I open thererigerator. No corpse in the house. DearHumphrey Bogartyour vision o theman, who doesn’tlaugh, lonely guestin a house which exists only as a acadein the middle o Beverly Hills. But the glass in the handdoesn’t tremble. It’s May, June, July.It’s August, September, October.No ootsteps in the gravel. Nocorpse in the house. And all the windowsclosed orever ater the singleshot.