A yellow square revealed by scratching off a black wash, the neighbor's kitchen window frames an eggshell blue vase and her housecoat the color of clover. A violent violet sprayed across the sky presages thunder. No, with plainly visible pleasure. . . . . . . The thought of death is my dancing partner, a fine one. She laughs too much, but we whirl, I a fallen leaf, she the wind.
Stars swirl, a mirrored ball, such fiery tesserae. . . . . . .
I subscribe to neither species nor sex. . . . The romance, the sex, old age and illness could happen to anyone, and therefore to no one in particular. They're important, but abstract. If that's the paradox of God and the world, of everything and nothing, it's also the paradox of the poem. You can say everything you know, about everyone you know or can invent, and say a whole lot, and make it as personal as you can, and still ultimately not say what you wanted to say.