The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up.

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

Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.

Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.

If I could blame it on all the mothers and fathers of the world, they of the lessons, the pellets of power, they of the love surrounding you like batter ... Blame it on God perhaps? He of the first opening that pushed us all into our first mistakes? No, I'll blame it on Man For Man is God and man is eating the earth up like a candy bar and not one of them can be left alone with the ocean for it is known he will gulp it all down. The stars (possibly) are safe. At least for the moment. The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.

She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.

In a letter (no matter how quickly it is written or honestly or freely or lovingly) it is more possible to be loving and lovable, more possible to reach out and to take in ... I feel I have somehow deceived you into thinking this is really a human relationship. It is a letter relationship between humans.