Today is today, and yesterday is gone. There is no doubt.

Sonnet XXV Before I loved you, love, nothing was my own: I wavered through the streets, among Objects: Nothing mattered or had a name: The world was made of air, which waited. I knew rooms full of ashes, Tunnels where the moon lived, Rough warehouses that growled 'get lost', Questions that insisted in the sand. Everything was empty, dead, mute, Fallen abandoned, and decayed: Inconceivably alien, it all Belonged to someone else - to no one: Till your beauty and your poverty Filled the autumn plentiful with gifts.

Conspirators in pajamas who exchange deep kisses for passwords.

The tomato offers its gift of fiery color and cool completeness.

Between lips and lips there are cities of great ash and moist summit, drops of when and how, vague comings and goings: between lips and lips as along a shore of sand and glass the wind passes.

In the house of poetry nothing endures that is not written with blood to be heard with blood.

And I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy.