The man giving birth in the dark has died & come back to life again, is stretching out his arms

After the first astounding rush, after the weeks at the lake, the crystal, the clouds, the water… the snow breaking under our boots… & the long mornings in bed. .…

At the edge of the body there is said to be a flaming halo– yellow, red, blue or pure white,

We sit on a rock to allow our souls to catch up with us. We have been traveling a long time.

A man so sick that the sexual soup cannot save him - the chicken soup of sex which cures everything: tossed mane of noodles,

Dear Colette, I want to write to you about being a woman for that is what you write to me. I want to tell you how your face

On line at the supermarket waiting for the tally, the blue numerals tattooed on the white skins

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

Your slit so like mine: the woman of it, the warm womanwide of thigh, & the comfort of it– knowing your nipples like mine,

The decorum of fire... —Pablo Neruda We learned the decorum of fire, the flame’s curious symmetry, the blue heat at the center of the…

In the glass-bottomed boat of our lives, we putter along gazing at the other world under the sea– that world of flickering

Could I unthink you, little heart, what would I do? throw you out with last night’s garbage,

If it is impossible to promise absolute fidelity, this is because we learn so much geography from the shifting of one body

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…