What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?

Follow your inner moonlight; don't hide the madness.

in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night

It isn't enough for your heart to break because everybody's heart is broken now.

America I used to be a communist when I was a kid and I'm not sorry.

My books piled up before me for my use waiting in space where I placed them, they haven't disappeared, time's left its remnants and qualities for me to use -- my words piled up, my texts, my manuscripts, my loves.

I am learning by the week, but my poesy is still not my own. New rhyme, new me me me in words. I am not all this carven rhetoric.