Little egg, little nub, full complement of fingers, toes, little rose blooming

For a long time unhappy with my man, I blamed men, blamed marriage, blamed the whole bleeding world,

After the first astounding rush, after the weeks at the lake, the crystal, the clouds, the water… the snow breaking under our boots… & the long mornings in bed. .…

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

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 want to understand the steep thi… that climbs ladders in your throat… I can’t make sense of you. Everywhere I look you’re there— a vast landmark, a volcano

The women he has had are all faces without eyes. He has entered them blind as a cut worm. He has swum their oceans

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

Could I unthink you, little heart, what would I do? throw you out with last night’s garbage,

Ash falls on the roof of my house. I have cursed you enough in the lines of my poems & between them,

Sometimes the poem doesn’t want to come; it hides from the poet like a playful cat who has run

Exploring each other’s depths, that surge of connection which makes the world seem sane,

The whole world is flat & I am round. Even women avert their eyes, & men, embarrassed by the messy way

In the redwood house sailing off into the ocean, I sleep with you– our dreams mingling, our breath coming & going

He was six foot four, and forty… and even colder than he thought he… James Thurber, The Thirteen Cloc… Not that I cared about the other… Those perfumed breasts with hearts