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…

When we become truly ourselves, we… —Suzuki Sick of the self, the self—seducing self— with its games, its fears,

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

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…

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

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

If you ask him he will talk for ho… how at fourteen he hammered signs,… raw with cold, and later painted b… in ladies’ boudoirs; how he played… for two weeks in jail, and lived o…

(a flip through BRIDE’s) The silver spoons were warbling their absurd musical names when, drawing back

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

You open to me a little, then grow afraid and close again, a small boy

"...a frozen memory, like any p… where nothing is missing, not even… and especially, nothingness..."… —Julio Cortázar, “Blow Up” Mirror-mad,

I sit at home at my desk alone as I used to do on many sunday afternoons when you came back to me,

Because she wants to touch him, she moves away. Because she wants to talk to him, she keeps silent. Because she wants to kiss him,