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

Living in a house near the Black Forest, without any clocks, she’s begun to listen to the walls.

The whole world is flat & I am round. Even women avert their eyes, & men, embarrassed by the messy way

It used to be hard for women, snowed in their white lives, white lies, to write books

A delicate border. A nonexistent… The train obligingly dissolves in… The G.I. next to me is talking wa… I don’t ‘know the Asian mind,’ he… Moving through old arguments.

My broom with its tufts of roses beckoning at the black, with its crown of thistles, prickling the sky,

You-the purest pleasure of my life, the split pit that proves the ripeness of the fruit,

She was not a slender woman, but her skin was milk mixed in with strawberry jam & between her legs the word pu… & her hair was the color of wh…

Cement up to the neck & my head packed with unsaid words. A gullet full of pebbles, a mouth

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

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…

The experience of fear is not an o… —J. Krishnamurti In dreams I descend into the cave of my past: a child with a morgue-tag

I love to go to sleep, When bed takes me like a lover wrapping my limbs in cool linen, soothing the fretfulness

Ash falls on the roof of my house. I have cursed you enough in the lines of my poems & between them,

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