Shared: seasons, books, and music. Keys, teacups, the breadbasket, linens and a bed. A dowry of words, of gestures, carried along, used up, spent. House rules followed. Said. Done. And always the extended hand. In winter, in a Viennese septet, and in summer I have been in love. With maps, in a mountain hut, on a beach and in a bed. A cult made up of dates and irrevocable promises, enraptured before something, reverent over nothing. ( — to the folded newspaper, the cold ashes, the note on a piece of paper) fearless in religion, for the church was this bed. From the sea view came my unstoppable painting. From my balcony I greeted the people, my neighbors, below. By the open fire, in safety, my hair took on its deepest color. The doorbell’s ring was the alarm for my joy. It is not you I have lost, but the world.
Q: Do you ever borrow from other poets? A: Absolutely. It's not larceny, it's homage. Q: Critics have said your poems are like Frankenstein's monster, disparate pieces badly sewn together that end up lurching out of the laboratory and eventually frightening a young woman brushing her blonde hair before going to bed. What's your response? A: Say, that's not bad. Would you mind repeating it slowly?