The life of the city never lets you go, nor do you ever want it to.

Out of this same light, out of the central mind, We make a dwelling in the evening air, In which being there together is enough.

Poor, dear, silly Spring, preparing her annual surprise!

After the leaves have fallen, we return To a plain sense of things. It is as if We had come to an end of the imagination, Inanimate in an inert savoir.

Imagination applied to the whole world is vapid in comparison to imagination applied to a detail.

Like the Sweetness of Gardenias Mother, you died 15 years ago. pain, a rapier, cut until, finally, there was just peace like the sweetness of gardenias in the crystal vase on your yellow kitchen table. so fragrant. your voice lingers in my ear reminding, scolding, guiding a pleasant mantra of tenderness, magic words that move my palms, your palms. together we are molding, helping, creating. in the mirror I see your eyes, your beautiful brown circles looking back, so radiant. "don't forget me," you whispered the day you died. I won't.

Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.