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.

I sit in the black leather chair meditating on the plume of smoke that rises in the air, riffling the pages of my life

Knowing our lives a drowse towards death (attended by dogs & children) how can it not matter

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

We used to meet on this corner in the same wind. It fought us up the hill to your house,

Next birthday I am thirty-six, & formed (for all intents & purposes) in tooth & claw.

Parachuting down through clouds shaped like whales & sharks, dolphins & penguins, pelicans & gulls,

Black ship of night sailing through the world & the moon an orange slice tangy to the teeth of lovers who lie

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…

Mute marriages: the ten-ton block of ice obstructing the throat, the heart, the red filter of the liver, the clogged life.

On the first night of the full moon, the primeval sack of ocean broke, & I gave birth to you

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…

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…

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