A bespectacled artist called Lear First perfected this smile in a sn… He was clever and witty; He gave life to this ditty - That original author called Lear.

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

Nobody believes in love– not even me. Love is the thing you wait to end.

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

The experience of fear is not an o… —J. Krishnamurti In dreams I descend into the cave of my past: a child with a morgue-tag

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

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…

Rising in the morning like warm bread, from a bed in America, the aroma

You are the first muse who came to… The others began & ended with… or a glance or a kiss between stan… the others strode away in the poin… or were kicked out by the stiletto…

This is the long tunnel of wanting… Its walls are lined with remembere… wet & red as the inside of you… full & juicy as your probing t… warm as your belly against mine,

Dear Colette, I want to write to you about being a woman for that is what you write to me. I want to tell you how your face

Most beautiful of poisons, border-plant, wearing your small green cowl, little friar, little murderer, aconitine flows

And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy. —William Blake Because I would not admit that I had nurtured

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…

I am in love with my womb & jealous of it. I cover it tenderly with a little pink hat (a sort of yarmulke)