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

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.

On line at the supermarket waiting for the tally, the blue numerals tattooed on the white skins

Meathooks, notebooks, the whole city sky palely flaming & spectral bombs hitting that patch of river I see from my eastern window.

We have a small sculpture of H… Nothing would surprise him. The beast in the jungle was what h… Edith Wharton’s obfuscating older… He fled the demons

You gave me a rose last time we met. I told myself if it bloomed our love would bloom,

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…

I love to go to sleep, When bed takes me like a lover wrapping my limbs in cool linen, soothing the fretfulness

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

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

For centuries we have lain like this, our warmths intermingled, our hearts beating the same two-step,

The lover in these poems is me; the doctor, Love. He appears

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