No more photos. Surely there are enough. No more shadows of myself thrown by light onto pieces of paper, onto squares of plastic. No more of my eyes, mouths, noses, moods, bad angles. No more yawns, teeth, wrinkles. I suffer from my own multiplicity. Two or three images would have been enough, or four, or five. That would have allowed for a firm idea: This is she. As it is, I'm watery, I ripple, from moment to moment I dissolve into my other selves. Turn the page: you, looking, are newly confused. You know me too well to know me. Or not too well: too much.

I wait. I compose myself. My self is a thing I must now compose, as one composes a speech. What I must present is a made thing, not something born.

There would be no Sherlock Holmes if it were not for serial publication.

It's evening, one of those gray water-color washes, like liquid dust.

Don't be married to a line or verse if it can't rhyme, fit the meter, or doesn't fit the outline.

Canada was built on dead beavers.

We've learned to see the world in gasps.