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

There is a white wood house near… in whose garden the nightingale st… Though Keats is dead, the bird wh… returns with melodies, on easeful… A lock of hair the poet’s love rec…

Love, death, sleeping with somebody else’s husband or wife-this is what poetry is about-Eskimo, Aztec,

Male? Female? God doesn’t care about sex & the long tree-shaded avenue

After the teach-in we smeared the walls with our solidarity, looked left, & saw Marx among the angels,

Boswell– you old rake– I have tri… your style; but it is no use; my d… all between my selves: and though… make endless notes and jottings th… my memory– it is in vain– for in t…

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

In the glass-bottomed boat of our lives, we putter along gazing at the other world under the sea– that world of flickering

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

For Jennifer Josephy On cold days it is easy to be reasonable, to button the mouth against kisses… dust the breasts

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

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

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