Dear Nada,

           ". . . I' mi son un che, quando
            Amor mi spira, noto, e a quel modo
            ch'e' ditta dentro vo significando."

                     --Dante, Purgatorio

           (I am one who, when Love inspires me
            takes note, and goes setting it forth
            after the fashion which he dictates
            within me.)


                        Shapeless, the omen thrives
                        on cinders. Tho light
                        strives it. It

                        is intent on Now before
                        it blots. My word
                        as good as water.

                                          No letter's
                        silent, my mouth a Yes
                        such that your eyes are needed

                        to read it. Say, say if this
                        is true. What are you thinking?
                        Answer me: the sad memories in you

                        aren't yet destroyed
                        by Love. Come,
                                       pour in my mouth

                        the one word that fills yours.

                                * * *

How do you tell a story? Where
without aging I die I love
you o my prison. Love? Nothing
no one can say not arising
out of pain. Coarsely gathered
in our own serene faces, so
waterful, thinned like paint
... no omen worse than that.
                             Make
move your reason, its exact
rigor, & on the heel of my hand
I'll kiss your fingers.
                        But if I prick
your heart it's only to see it
bloom, & in that brownness which is the mind
green things flourish

                       not only
                       the should've been, not

                       only as a tree is only
                       become a ship & lost at sea.

                                                    Didn't I see
you, just now? How else do I miss you, no
you Our cells are prisons.
                              We tire ourselves
                              in submersion.
                                             Meanwhile, I hang
upon your lips, I'm mortal, the movie that
everything is. One can't describe love without sounding
bleak. So, let's you & me

                           keep it clean & simple

                           accurately non-numbered

                           it's not enough to say

                           "love," looking into

                           the light of the heart

                                * * *

You're the hole in my sock, & the mind quick to discern
you're the caring-to-wound who on hands & knees gives up
you're the "Hey man, what's happening?" & the unknowing jolt
you're the whole face that wet the fingers that lost touch
     with the tongue I read in some poem in that other world
you're the coifed present life labeled Past Behavior
you're my most respected addressee, my O My
you're what I've ever seen confront me, a broken surface
you're no word, no word, only an awkwardness of eternal light
you're my consciousness, my here, my where-else-could-I-find-cold
     & to begin with, you do not stop at you.
                                              Nada, my Name
any name I might give you, the title
of any book. & I love you
because you're beautiful  & strong.

                              * * *

An omen must be read. As specifically as Love. I'm not
gonna blow even one blue note from your brow
but neither can you lock one under box lid. Give it up. Surrender,
I'm this man sitting under those stars on this earth. I, I'm
empty, but awake. & there's no difference between
you & me. What does it mean that "you & me" is magic
& unreal? The universe is fully known because it is ignored.
I don't want to be ignored by you. And I'm not in a greedy mood. 
I'm simply not here, where you are reading this. It causes 
confusion, & future mending. Mend,
but with an amused gesture.

                              * * *

"Well, that's life!"

                     "Does this trail lead to the ridge?"

"endless nothingness of reality"

                                 "Let's get out of here"

"remember me"

                              * * *

OMEN:  "Willingly I'll say there's been a sweet marriage,"
        divined by B. for me from Bending the Bow.
        We bent it so far it snapped. Banged up she came
        but near-virgin, & gone back to seed she left. Everything
        speaks to us, we simply don't bother to stop
        & listen. Every
        thing. Is your cunt one lip? Or those folds now kept
        just out of reach. What I imagine (you)
        lives & trembles in the air. Every fold inside you
        dreaming a different kind of dream.

OMEN:  "I have taken leave of the friends I love the most & have
        set out on a [ILLEGIBLE]."

OMEN:  "You walk,
        you get muddy."

                             * * *

                   Love is anterior to life,
                   Posterior to death,
                   Initial of creation, and
                   The exponent of breath.

                          --Emily Dickinson

                             * * *

Like concentric waves on the wind, our water, a bird
my heart your kiss, an open fountain, my eyes
on your lips.
              Heart spins like a top.
                                      I'm caught
Should I care? Adios, sun
                          & the river at my feet

I wanna go back to you
& from you
to my heart. You going too?
                            Adios,
our bare heart.
                Nada, avoid the illusion there can be any lack
for someone who wishes, then fully decides.
                                            & tell me, tell me
oh how incomprehensibly far from this
you feel
we are.
        Will me with you. Dear woman, filled with our hesitant fate
tell me
        tell me
                we no longer lay out each path
                as a lovely meander

                I await your answer,

                love,

                Gary