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

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

Baby-witch, my daughter, my worship of the Goddess alone condemns you to the fire. . .

‘Death is our eternal companion,’… —Carlos Castaneda My death looks exactly like me. She lives to my left,

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

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

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

She left him in death’s egg, the bone sack & the gunny sack… the bag of down & feathers-all… Somehow he couldn’t get back. It was night,

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

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

The house of the body is a stately manor open for nothing never to the public. But

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

If it is only for the taking off– the velvet cloak, the ostrich feather boa, the dress which slithers to the fl… with the sound of strange men sigh…