Today I deposited the last of the postcards that I wrote (on) in the last moments of the last leg of my journey, theoretically the last half dozen of two hundred odd fragments of poetic correspondence.

I didn’t keep actual track of what, to where, from where, etc. I just strove to acquire, compose and mail one a day, by whatever imperfect means I found at my disposal wherever I happened to be.

I mailed the last one to KMF, the amiable gatekeeper of the Van Duzer Corridor, a symbolic gesture of transition.

The US Postal Service would no longer be my publisher, delivering anything I wanted to its reader for (now) thirty-three cents, like an arrogant literary success, anything I wanted, even if it ultimately had only one reader, even if the correspondence never even reached its intended reader and it existed simply for myself—what do I care, they’ll publish anything.

The project was over and I had to find new ways of wooing new editors. I kept taking photographs of the mailboxes in town, though I now had no more postcards.