We used to strike sparks off each other. Our eyes would meet or our hands, & the blue lightning of love

Now, moving in, cartons on the flo… the radio playing to bare walls, picture hooks left stranded in the unsoiled squares where pain… and something reminding us

Bobbing in the waters of the womb, little godhead, ten toes, ten fing… & infinite hope, sails upside down through the worl… My bones, I know, are only a cage

You sleep in the darkness, you with the back I love & the gift of sleeping through my noisy nights of poetry. I have taken other men into my tho…

‘Hotel rooms constitute a separate… —Tom Stoppard A bed, a telephone, the cord to the world beyond the womb . . .

‘Death is our eternal companion,’… —Carlos Castaneda My death looks exactly like me. She lives to my left,

Because my grandmother’s hours were apple cakes baking, & dust motes gathering, & linens yellowing & seams and hems

Looking for a place where we might turn off the inner dialogue, the monologue of futures & regrets,

In the redwood house sailing off into the ocean, I sleep with you– our dreams mingling, our breath coming & going

Dearest man-in-the-moon, ever since our lunch of cheese & moonjuice on the far side of the sun, I have walked the craters of New…

You call me courageous, I who grew up gnawing on books, as some kids

You can be hurt because you want too much; because in your face it says: love me, nurture me; because in your teeth it says:

the sky sinks its blue teeth into the mountains. Rising on pure will (the lurch & lift-off, the sudden swing

What happens when the juice of the… drenches you with its lemony tang, its tart swe… & your whole body stings with… so that your toes sing to your mou…