What Were The Bodies Like On The

Part Of The Shabbiness Of Our Culture, If Indeed It Is Shabby, Is That It Doesn't Seem To Prepare People. With All The Songs About Love And All The Movies And All The Books, There Doesn't Seem To Be Any Way That We Can Prepare The Human Heart For This Experience.

And I'll Bury My Soul In A Scrapbook, With The Photographs There And The Moths.

In Streams Of Light I Clearly Saw The Dust You Seldom See, Out Of Which The Nameless Makes A Name For One Like Me... All Busy In The Sunlight The Flecks Did Float And Dance, And I Was Tumbled Up With Them In Formless Circumstance.

She Was Made Of Flesh And Eyelashes.

We Are So Lightly Here. It Is In Love That We Are Made. In Love We Disappear.