I Wondered What I Thought I Was

The Sun Gives You Ulcers, The Wind Gives You T.b. Once You Were Beautiful.

I Know The Bottom, She Says. I Know It With My Great Tap Root: It Is What You Fear. I Do Not Fear It: I Have Been There.

The Moon, Too, Abases Her Subjects, But In The Daytime She Is Ridiculous. Your Dissatisfactions, On The Other Hand, Arrive Through The Mailslot With Loving Regularity, White And Blank, Expansive As Carbon Monoxide. No Day Is Safe From News Of You, Walking About In Africa Maybe, But Thinking Of Me.

I, Love, I Am The Pure Acetylene Virgin Attended By Roses.

God, How I Ricochet Between Certainties And Doubts.