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

Knowing our lives a drowse towards death (attended by dogs & children) how can it not matter

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)

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

I hear you will not fall in love w… because I come without a guarantee… because someday I may depart at wh… and leave you desolate, abandoned,… If that’s the case, what use to be…

Chi vuol esser lieto, sia: di doman non c’e certezza. —Lorenzo di Medici In the poplars’ lengthening shadow… amid the rows of marigolds and ear…

Bobbing in the waters of the womb, little godhead, ten toes, ten fing… & infinite hope, sails upside down through the worl… My bones, I know, are only a cage

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…

Narrowing life because of the fear… narrowing it between the dust mote… narrowing the pink baby between the green-limbed monsters, & the drooling idiots,

. .Who shall measure the heat and violence of the poet’s heart when… and tangled in a woman’s body? —Virginia Woolf Every month,

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

We sit on a rock to allow our souls to catch up with us. We have been traveling a long time.

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