Rats live on no evil star
My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
In a dream you are never eighty.
Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
I like you; your eyes are full of language." [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]
We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!