And I'll dance with you in Vienna, I'll be wearing a river's disguise. The hyacinth wild on my shoulder my mouth on the dew of your thighs. And I'll bury my soul in a scrapbook, with the photographs there and the moss. And I'll yield to the flood of your beauty, my cheap violin and my cross.

I try to make those references. I try to make sure that they're not too obscure. But outside of that, I dare not claim anything in the spiritual realm for my own.

To have [Adam's Cohen] microscopic attention to my work was really a great privilege.

We do what only lovers can: make a gift out of necessity.

You are locked into your suffering and your pleasures are the seal.

Your body will never be familiar.

Here's to the few who forgive what you do, and the fewer who don't even care