Reciprocity Of Sensation Is Not

Spindly Branches Of Buttercups Were Secreted Among Gleaming Stems Still Moist At The Roots From Last Night's Rain That Had Washedand Refreshed The Entire Wood, Had Dowered It In Poignant Transparency, The Unique, Inconsolable Quality Of Rainy Countries, As If All Was Glimpsed Through Tears.

If Miss Means Respectably Unmarried, And Mrs. Respectably Married, Then Ms. Means Nudge, Nudge, Wink, Wink.

And Each Stroke Of His Tongue Ripped Off Skin After Successive Skin, All The Skins Of A Life In The World, And Left Behind A Nascent Patina Of Shining Hairs. My Earrings Turned Back To Water And Trickled Down My Shoulders; I Shrugged The Drops Off My Beautiful Fur.

Your Thin White Face, Chérie; He Said, As If He Saw It For The First Time. Your Thin White Face, With Its Promise Of Debauchery Only A Connoisseur Could Detect.

And, Indeed, Is There Not Something Holy About A Great Kitchen?... The Scoured Gleam Of Row Upon Row Of Metal Vessels Dangling From Hooks Or Reposing On Their Shelves Till Needed With The Air Of So Many Chalices Waiting For The Celebration Of The Sacrament Of Food. And The Range Like An Altar, Yes, Before Which My Mother Bowed In Perpetual Homage, A Fringe Of Sweat Upon Her Upper Lip And The Fire Glowing In Her Cheeks.