the sky sinks its blue teeth into the mountains. Rising on pure will (the lurch & lift-off, the sudden swing

Old bag of bones upside down, what are you searching for in poetry, in meditation?

You sleep in the darkness, you with the back I love & the gift of sleeping through my noisy nights of poetry. I have taken other men into my tho…

You hate the telephone but will not see me face to face so I am left beseeching you

It used to be hard for women, snowed in their white lives, white lies, to write books

You take me to the restaurant wher… plays God over a fish tank. The f… pace their green cage, waiting to… out of an element. Who knows what… There are thirteen in a tank meant

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…

"...a frozen memory, like any p… where nothing is missing, not even… and especially, nothingness..."… —Julio Cortázar, “Blow Up” Mirror-mad,

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 am not interested in my body– the part that stinks & rots & brings forth life,

When the devil brings him, like a Christmas puppy, examine his downy fur & smell his small paws for the scent of sulphur.

Mute marriages: the ten-ton block of ice obstructing the throat, the heart, the red filter of the liver, the clogged life.

I am happiest near the ocean, where the changing light reminds me of my death & the fact that it need not be…

He still wears the glass skin of c… Under his hands, the stones turn m… His eyes are knives. Who froze the ground to his feet? Who locked his mouth into an horiz…