The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren

The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.

The summer has seized you, as when, last month in Amalfi, I saw lemons as large as your desk-side globe-that miniature map of the world-and I could mention, too, the market stalls of mushrooms and garlic bugs all engorged. Or I even think of the orchard next door, where the berries are done and the apples are beginning to swell. And once, with our first backyard,I remember I planted an acre of yellow beans we couldn't eat.

Today life opened inside me like an egg.

The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.

Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.