. .Who shall measure the heat and violence of the poet’s heart when… and tangled in a woman’s body? —Virginia Woolf Every month,

Exploring each other’s depths, that surge of connection which makes the world seem sane,

Handcuffed by time, I travel across this broad beautiful America– mesas, deserts, peaks with clouds caught

When the devil brings him, like a Christmas puppy, examine his downy fur & smell his small paws for the scent of sulphur.

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

You hate the telephone but will not see me face to face so I am left beseeching you

I am not interested in my body– the part that stinks & rots & brings forth life,

You gave me the child that seamed my belly & stitched up my life. You gave me: one book of love poem… five years of peace

Not wanting to write for fear that anything– the passion for the page, the love of carbon ribbons & e… will distract me from your face,

You take me to the restaurant wher… plays God over a fish tank. The f… pace their green cage, waiting to… out of an element. Who knows what… There are thirteen in a tank meant

Meathooks, notebooks, the whole city sky palely flaming & spectral bombs hitting that patch of river I see from my eastern window.

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

Out in the world, the child cries for the mother as the wound cries for salt as the lover cries for her unrequited lover

I sleep with double pillows since… Is one of them for you-or is it yo… My bed is heaped with books of poe… I fall asleep on yellow legal pads… Oh the orgies in stationery stores…

Knowing our lives a drowse towards death (attended by dogs & children) how can it not matter