That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. "Save them for my funeral," I'd said.

I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.

There was a beautiful time.

A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion; an insight like the flight of birds.

The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss.

Worse even than your maddening song, your silence.

I do not know who I am tonight.