"...a frozen memory, like any p… where nothing is missing, not even… and especially, nothingness..."… —Julio Cortázar, “Blow Up” Mirror-mad,

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

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

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…

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

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

Driving me away is easier than saying goodbye– kissing the air,

What makes a poet? Many have tried to guess. Is it a voice like a conduit, a plainspokenness to grief,

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

The experience of fear is not an o… —J. Krishnamurti In dreams I descend into the cave of my past: a child with a morgue-tag

‘Death is our eternal companion,’… —Carlos Castaneda My death looks exactly like me. She lives to my left,

The decorum of fire... —Pablo Neruda We learned the decorum of fire, the flame’s curious symmetry, the blue heat at the center of the…

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…