Insomnia" Perhaps She's A Daytime Sleeper.

Someone Loves Us All.

Close, Close All Night The Lovers Keep. They Turn Together In Their Sleep, Close As Two Pages In A Book That Read Each Other In The Dark. Each Knows All The Other Knows, Learned By Heart From Head To Toes.

Topography Displays No Favorites; North's As Near As West. More Delicate Than The Historians' Are The Map-makers' Colors.

I Am Sorry For People Who Can't Write Letters. But I Suspect Also That You And I ... Love To Write Them Because It's Kind Of Like Working Without Really Doing It.

Open The Book. (the Gilt Rubs Off The Edges Of The Pages And Pollinates The Fingertips.)