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Succulent is the night in its warm colors

I have dreamed of forever before

The Earth may only stand for one more minute

But inside of that we can escape

Ornate is the mirror through which we travel

Like silver tides against our waist

My heart is a diamond waiting to explode

Take me to your crystal landscape

There in the lost city

I will compose a letter to my former self

and sign it as an anonymous friend

And the many days spent thereafter

will be on a coast of love

in the most literal sense

collecting strange plants and rare species

And there will be afternoon travelers but none who will last very long

Letter to St. Francis

In my mind I am always frightened by dogs, but in practice I haven't the slightest reservation. I could become a nun and lose myself in the fascination of flowers and mange, but I can never will myself through the discipline.

The nicotine odor of your ghost always leaves me disoriented. I have lived in many houses since your departure. I now stand in the last isle of a market where the sun has been on sale for 8 days.

I shall write again when I have more time. Until then, let all the glass houses implode into blue smoke and incense.