A Woman's Body Is The Gate To

At Times The Whole Sky Was Ringed In Shooting Points And Puckers Of Light Gathering And Falling, Pulsing, Fading, Rhythmical As Breathing. All Of A Piece. As If The Sky Were A Pattern Of Nerves And Our Thought And Memories Traveled Across It. As If The Sky Were One Gigantic Memory For Us All.

There Will Never Come A Time When I Will Be Able To Resist My Emotions.

Each Life Is One Short Word Slowly Uttered.

Can You Stop Your Mother From Singing To You? Who Would Do Such A Thing?

I Am Part Of What She Thinks Is Her Illness, A Symptom Of Which She Thinks She Has Been Cured. She, On The Other Hand, Is What I Was Looking For.