Here, Sister, it can be said that good-by means hello, day night, far near, here where the rivers run uphill and the clouds lie still

Singing is prohibited in this café… Torture is permitted in this café. I’ll have a double, thank you, in time, Sister, may I call you Sister, you

What I did not say was that within this tiny book, this 1” x 1” x 1” cube, there was but one word. It was not even an unusual word, rather one people once used all the time as a call or...

“I said darkling and you said spar… The play-house appears before us as a real house in the dark filled with people cut out of magazines and postcards

To learn what to say to unlearn The order of islands here The number of fingers made from ideas certain Bulgaria anywhere

Beneath the writing on the wall is the writing it was designed to obscure. The two together form a third kind There is no writing

The Logic of Contradictions A logical principle is said to be… or formal proposition because it c… nothing to the premises of the arg… governs. This leads to the logic o…

As if by saying “morning” on Janu… the light would be set forward along the megalophonous shore Was there anything else you wanted… about the body where I belong

Those who have lived here since be… time are gone while the ones who m… replace them have not yet arrived. The streets are wet with a recent rain yet you continue to count

The clock is a fiction, dear Sist… yet we live within it, Sister, its arms are ours, and the fiction is as real as a rose in the steel dust

In a digital dream or on the silver screen Invisible Sister said: Whenever sperm pours from my breas… I am forced to ask,

The voice, because of its austerit… The voice, because of its austerit… Someone will say, I can’t breathe… The voice ages with the body. It will say, I was shaped by ligh…

[Let a be taken as . . .] a liquid line beneath the skin and b where the blue tiles meet body and the body’s bridge a seeming road here, endless

Bury me in a cocoa pod, it’s time. Bury me in a Mercedes Benz, a silver one, I’ve met my end. Bury me in a lobster shell, a carapace of red, now I’m dead.