We Can Only Know What We Can

I Stayed Under The Moon Too Long.i Am Silvered With Lust.dreams Flick Like Minnows Through My Eyes.my Voice Is Trees Tossing In The Wind.i Loose Myself Like A Flock Of Blackbirdsstorming Into Your Face.my Lightest Touch Leaves Blue Prints,bruises On Your Mind.desire Sandpapers Your Skinso Thin I Read The Veins And Arteriesmaps Of Routes I Will Traveltill I Lodge In Your Spine.the Night Is Our Fur.we Curl Inside It Licking.

I Think Having A Great Range Of Experiences In My Life Had Helped Me As A Writer, Particularly A Writer Of Fiction. I Have Known A Great Many Different Sorts Of People In Different Situations, And I Have A Notion How Very Well Of Badly People Can Behave In Times Of Stress Or Danger Or Violence.

I Don't Find That Writing About Parts Of My Life Had Much Effect Except In Some Cases To Improve My Memory. To Get Into Parts Of The Past I Want To Recall Very Vividly, I Use A Form Of Directed Meditation.

You Are Built To Pull A Cart, To Lift A Heavy Load And Bear It, To Haul Up The Long Slope, And So Am I, Peasant Bodies, Earthy, Solid Shapely Dark Glazed Clay Pots That Can Stand On The Fire.

When She Kissed Him, He Melted Like A Lump Of Milk Chocolate.