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

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

A man so sick that the sexual soup cannot save him - the chicken soup of sex which cures everything: tossed mane of noodles,

You-the purest pleasure of my life, the split pit that proves the ripeness of the fruit,

You can be hurt because you want too much; because in your face it says: love me, nurture me; because in your teeth it says:

In Autumn, as in Spring, the sap flows, the sap wishes to race against heartbeats

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

If God is a dog drowsing, contemplating the quintessential dogginess of the universe, of the whole canine race, why are we

All over the district, on leather… & brocade couches, on daybeds & ‘professional divans,’ they… The air is thick with it, the ears of analysts must be stick…

The man giving birth in the dark has died & come back to life again, is stretching out his arms

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

Because my grandmother’s hours were apple cakes baking, & dust motes gathering, & linens yellowing & seams and hems

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…