“There's blood, a taste I remember. It tastes of orange popsicles, penny gumballs, red licorice, gnawed hair, dirty ice.”

“Nevertheless, blood is thicker than water, as anyone knows who has tasted both.”

“Screw poetry, it's you I want,your taste, rainon you, mouth on your skin.”

“How could I be sleeping with this particular man.... Surely only true love could justify my lack of taste.”

“I always remembered what she looked like, the dried apple face, the silvery gray hair, the snapping blue eyes.”

“She imagines him imagining her. This is her salvation.In spirit she walks the city, traces its labyrinths, its dingy mazes: each assignation, each rendezvous, each door and stair and bed. What he said, what she said, what they did, what they did then. Even the times they argued, fought, parted, agonized, rejoined. How they’d loved to cut themselves on each other, taste their own blood. We were ruinous together, she thinks. But how else can we live, these days, except in the midst of ruin?”

“I grew sodden with light; my skin on the inside glowed a dull red.”