For Louise
In your next letter I wish you'd saywhere you are going and what you are doing;how are the plays and after the playswhat other pleasures you're pursuing:taking cabs in the middle of the night,driving as if to save your soulwhere the road goes round and round the parkand the meter glares like a moral owl,and the trees look so queer and greenstanding alone in big black cavesand suddenly you're in a different placewhere everything seems to happen in waves,and most of the jokes you just can't catch, like dirty words rubbed off a slate,and the songs are loud but somehow dimand it gets so terribly late,and coming out of the brownstone houseto the gray sidewalk, the watered street,one side of the buildings rises with the sunlike a glistening field of wheat.—Wheat, not oats, dear.
I'm afraidif it's wheat it's none of your sowing, nevertheless I'd like to knowwhat you are doing and where you are going.
