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

Is God the one who eats the meat off the bones of dead people? —Molly Miranda Jong—Fast, age 3… God is the one, Molly,

I sit at my desk alone as I did on many Sunday afternoons when you came back to me, your arms aching for me,

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…

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

At the furthermost reach of the se… where Atlantis sinks under the wak… I have come to heal my life. I knit together like a broken arm. The salt fills the crevices of bon…

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…

All night he lies awake tuning the… tuning the night with its fat crac… with its melancholy love songs cro… across the rainy air above Verdun & the autobahn’s blue suicidal…

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…

On a darkening planet speeding toward our death, we pierce a rosy cloud & hit clean air,

And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy. —William Blake Because I would not admit that I had nurtured

Unable to bear the uncertainty of the future, we consulted seers, mediums, stock market gurus,

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