On his knees, his back to us: the pale honeydew melons of his
        bare buttocks, the shapely, muscular hemispheres—

        the voluptuous center.

It was deja vu all over again.

I know this town like the back of my head.

People who live in glass houses are worth two in the bush.

Although I was tenacious, I never learned
  the wisdom and will of tenacity;
Although I was persistent, and praised for persistence,

P was going mad, more than before.

At one lowering finger, the park turned dead white.

Playing becomes a problem within a problem.

It seems we’re flat stones      pulled from wet sand

“You know it’s me.”
Death’s green face opens the bath door.

Beautiful little bitch
with your fine bones,
thin and sweet ears,

It’s like something breathing
its last. God, it’s a lonely sound.
Pacific fog is blowing in.