Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.

Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.

Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.

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

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

We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!

Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.