Let there be seasons so that our tongues will be rich in asparagus and limes.

And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, "My need is more desperate!" and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.

Emerald as heavy as a golf course, ruby as dark as an afterbirth, diamond as white as sun on the sea.

The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is; the waves fold over each other; they are in love with themselves; sleeping in their own skin; and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.

I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.

As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.

It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious