“Insomnia"perhaps she's a daytime sleeper.”

“The moon in the bureau mirrorlooks out a million miles(and perhaps with pride, at herself,but she never, never smiles)far and away beyond sleep, orperhaps she's a daytime sleeper.By the Universe deserted,she'd tell it to go to hell,and she'd find a body of water,or a mirror, on which to dwell.So wrap up care in a cobweband drop it down the wellinto that world invertedwhere left is always right,where the shadows are really the body,where we stay awake all night,where the heavens are shallow as the seais now deep, and you love me.”

“Exchanging HatsUnfunny uncles who insistin trying on a lady's hat,--oh, even if the joke falls flat,we share your slight transvestite twistin spite of our embarrassment.Costume and custom are complex.The headgear of the other sexinspires us to experiment.Anandrous aunts, who, at the beachwith paper plates upon your laps,keep putting on the yachtsmen's capswith exhibitionistic screech,the visors hanging o'er the earso that the golden anchors drag,--the tides of fashion never lag.Such caps may not be worn next year.Or you who don the paper plateitself, and put some grapes upon it,or sport the Indian's feather bonnet,--perversities may aggravatethe natural madness of the hatter.And if the opera hats collapseand crowns grow draughty, then, perhaps,he thinks what might a miter matter?Unfunny uncle, you who wore ahat too big, or one too many,tell us, can't you, are there anystars inside your black fedora?Aunt exemplary and slim,with avernal eyes, we wonderwhat slow changes they see undertheir vast, shady, turned-down brim.”

“I leave a lovely opalescent ribbon: I know this.”

“I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same,slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones,icily free above the stones,above the stones and then the world.If you should dip your hand in,your wrist would ache immediately,your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burnas if the water were a transmutation of firethat feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame.If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter,then briny, then surely burn your tongue.It is like what we imagine knowledge to be:dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free,drawn form the cold hard mouthof the world, derived from the rocky breastsforever, flowing and drawn, and sinceour knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown.”

“Dreams were the worst. Of course I dreamed of foodand love, but they were pleasant rather than otherwise. But then I'd dream of thingslike slitting a baby's throat, mistaking itfor a baby goat. I'd havenightmares of other islandsstretching away from mine, infinitiesof islands, islands spawning islands,like frogs' eggs turning into polliwogsof islands, knowing that I had to liveon each and every one, eventually,for ages, registering their flora,their fauna, their geography.”

“Open the book. (The gilt rubs off the edges of the pages and pollinates the fingertips.)”