It Was Not An Adventure; It Was

The Memory Of My Father Is Wrapped Up In White Paper, Like Sandwiches Taken For A Day Of Work. Just As A Magician Takes Towers And Rabbits Out Of His Hat, He Drew Love From His Small Body.

From The Place Where We Are Right, Flowers Will Not Grow In The Spring.

Tonight I Think Again Of Many Days That Are Sacrificed For One Night Of Love. Of The Waste And The Fruit Of The Waste, Of Plenty And Of Fire. And How Painlessly-time.

Here (jerusalem), Tears Do Not Weaken The Eyes, They Only Polish And Shine The Hardness Of Faces Like Stone.

Love Is Like A Reservoir Of Kindness And Pleasure, Like Silos And Pools During A Siege.