My memory of your casual smileThis memory, likea child's bit of sweet embroidery smuggledout of an asylum

My eyes closed, hands open, Take it, take it. Then, every day wasted chasing it.

The letters, the fading. The labyrinth, the cake. The four hundred brackish lakes of the brain. She searches for themusic, but she can't find it. Oh, God, it was hereonly the other day.

To live. I'm not endorsing it.

A man in the massive shadowsof the columnsof the Museum of Griefs-to-Come.

And my wildly troubled love for you, which labored gently in the garden all through June, then tore the flowers up with its fists in July.

When it comes to nothingness, there is no cup.

The weatherman is always as honest as he is vague.

Even my identity has been kept hidden from me. It is a child's ghost buried in mud. It is an old woman waving at me from a passing train.