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

Dearest man-in-the-moon, ever since our lunch of cheese & moonjuice on the far side of the sun, I have walked the craters of New…

Already six years past your age! The steps in Rome, the house near Hampstead Heath, & all your fears that you might cease to be

Nobody believes in love– not even me. Love is the thing you wait to end.

Love, death, sleeping with somebody else’s husband or wife-this is what poetry is about-Eskimo, Aztec,

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

People who live by the sea understand eternity. They copy the curves of the waves, their hearts beat with the tides, & the saltiness of their blood

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…

I sleep with double pillows since… Is one of them for you-or is it yo… My bed is heaped with books of poe… I fall asleep on yellow legal pads… Oh the orgies in stationery stores…

Meathooks, notebooks, the whole city sky palely flaming & spectral bombs hitting that patch of river I see from my eastern window.

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

I put our books face to face so they could talk. They whispered about us. I put yours on top of mine. They would not mate.

I am in love with my womb & jealous of it. I cover it tenderly with a little pink hat (a sort of yarmulke)