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

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

All over the district, on leather… & brocade couches, on daybeds & ‘professional divans,’ they… The air is thick with it, the ears of analysts must be stick…

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…

What happens when the juice of the… drenches you with its lemony tang, its tart swe… & your whole body stings with… so that your toes sing to your mou…

The poet fears failure & so she says “Hold on pen— what if the critics hate me?”

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

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.

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

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

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

I was sick of being a woman, sick of the pain, the irrelevant detail of sex, my own concavity uselessly hungering

At the furthermost reach of the se… where Atlantis sinks under the wak… I have come to heal my life. I knit together like a broken arm. The salt fills the crevices of bon…

All night he lies awake tuning the… tuning the night with its fat crac… with its melancholy love songs cro… across the rainy air above Verdun & the autobahn’s blue suicidal…

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