He still wears the glass skin of c… Under his hands, the stones turn m… His eyes are knives. Who froze the ground to his feet? Who locked his mouth into an horiz…

If it is impossible to promise absolute fidelity, this is because we learn so much geography from the shifting of one body

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

Ash falls on the roof of my house. I have cursed you enough in the lines of my poems & between them,

Regret is the young girl who sits… & stares at her hands. They are bluer than shadows in sno… They are bloodless as fear. Her fingernail moons are white.

This constant ache is my leg’s message to me. ‘Hello. Hello. Hello. You’re getting there,' it says, ‘step by step.’

The whole world is flat & I am round. Even women avert their eyes, & men, embarrassed by the messy way

Endless duplication of lives and o… —Theodore Roethke I have known the imperial power of… the awesome indifference of recept… I have been intimidated by desk &a…

For centuries we have lain like this, our warmths intermingled, our hearts beating the same two-step,

Parachuting down through clouds shaped like whales & sharks, dolphins & penguins, pelicans & gulls,

At dusk Demeter becomes afraid for baby Persephone lost in that hell which she herself created

I am the Sphinx. I am the woman buried in sand up to her chin. I am waiting for an archaeologist to unearth me,

Not wanting to write for fear that anything– the passion for the page, the love of carbon ribbons & e… will distract me from your face,

Rising in the morning like warm bread, from a bed in America, the aroma

The lover in these poems is me; the doctor, Love. He appears