He writes

In a gentle, wandering epistle,
In a style that makes me think of a grey kitten climbing,
In the most welcoming and thoughtful way,

That my company is a blessing and our collaboration a privilege.

He writes,
As though thinking to himself,
As though he is trying ideas on for size,

That I could reflect and reconsider my relationship to Duty.

He writes that my poetic thought is not a reclining invalid, but could stand up within the tension of classic forms;
that the works of my brain with engrams and spreadsheets
and the works of my hands with patterns and lines and measurements
and yarns and calculus
could be integrated
with the yearnings of my spirit to fly
on an infinite wind
of heart-passions and words.

He writes meandering phrases and clauses and sentences

On a path which folds and turns and re-folds and returns to
the center of the labyrinth.