The women he has had are all faces without eyes. He has entered them blind as a cut worm. He has swum their oceans

Regret is the young girl who sits… & stares at her hands. They are bluer than shadows in sno… They are bloodless as fear. Her fingernail moons are white.

I sit at my desk alone as I did on many Sunday afternoons when you came back to me, your arms aching for me,

The old poet with his face full of lines, with iambs jumping in his hair lik… with all the revisions of his body unsaying him,

I mourn a dead friend, like myself… —Pablo Neruda about César Vallej… I looked at the book. ‘It will stand,’ I thought. Not a palace

This constant ache is my leg’s message to me. ‘Hello. Hello. Hello. You’re getting there,' it says, ‘step by step.’

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

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

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

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

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

Spring, rainbows, ordinary miracles about which nothing new can be said. The stars on a clear night

The lessons we learned here (fumbling with our lunchbags, handkerchiefs & secret cheeks of bubblegum) were graver than any