She leaps into the alien heart of the passerby, the drunk, the girl who spouts Freudian talk over Szechuan food. She is part herself,

He still wears the glass skin of c… Under his hands, the stones turn m… His eyes are knives. Who froze the ground to his feet? Who locked his mouth into an horiz…

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

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

With his head full of Shakespeare… and old notions of poetic justice, he was ready with his elegies the day the ocean sailed into the… ‘The sea,’ he wrote, 'is a forgivi…

On a darkening planet speeding toward our death, we pierce a rosy cloud & hit clean air,

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…

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

I began by loving women & the love turned to bitterness. My mother, the bitter, whose bitter lesson–

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

I pass to the other side of the pa… —Pablo Neruda On the other side of the page where the last days go, where the lost poems go,

Rising in the morning like warm bread, from a bed in America, the aroma

I put our books face to face so they could talk. They whispered about us. I put yours on top of mine. They would not mate.