At dusk Demeter becomes afraid for baby Persephone lost in that hell which she herself created

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

On a darkening planet speeding toward our death, we pierce a rosy cloud & hit clean air,

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

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

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

The old poet with his face full of lines, with iambs jumping in his hair lik… with all the revisions of his body unsaying him,

You whom I hoped to reach by writ… you beyond the multicolored tangle of telephone wires, you with your white paper soul trampled in transit,

Because she wants to touch him, she moves away. Because she wants to talk to him, she keeps silent. Because she wants to kiss him,

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

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…

Goddess, I come to you my neck wreathed with rosebuds, my head filled with visions of inf… my palms open to your silver nails… my eyes open to your rays of illum…

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

He says he is a perfect poet. He lives alone, with his perfect m… & sometimes they don’t even sp… So perfectly do they ‘communicate.… He lives alone, his greatest pleas…