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…

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

Living in a house near the Black Forest, without any clocks, she’s begun to listen to the walls.

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 sit at home at my desk alone as I used to do on many sunday afternoons when you came back to me,

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

Sometimes the poem doesn’t want to come; it hides from the poet like a playful cat who has run

I mourn a dead friend, like myself… —Pablo Neruda about César Vallej… I looked at the book. ‘It will stand,’ I thought. Not a palace

Out in the world, the child cries for the mother as the wound cries for salt as the lover cries for her unrequited lover

Looking for a place where we might turn off the inner dialogue, the monologue of futures & regrets,

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

You operate on the afternoon You perform open heart surgery on the ghosts of your suicidal friends You divorce your parents

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…

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,