In The Garden I Will Die. In

The Day We Stop Resisting Our Instincts, We'll Have Learned How To Live.

Men Like To Pleasure Us, Girl. They Like To Undo Our Plaits And Give Us Water To Drink From Their Own Mouths. That's What Makes The World Go Round.

With Their Souls Of Patent Leather, They Come Down The Road. Hunched And Nocturnal, Where They Breathe They Impose, Silence Of Dark Rubber, And Fear Of Fine Sand.

Angel And Muse Approach From Without; The Angel Sheds Light And The Muse Gives Form (hesiod Learned Of Them). Gold Leaf Or Chiton-folds: The Poet Finds His Models In His Laurel Coppice. But The Duende, On The Other Hand, Must Come To Life In The Nethermost Recesses Of The Blood.

Seville Is A Tower Full Of Fine Archers.... Under The Arch Of The Sky, Across The Clear Plain, She Shoots The Constant Arrow Of Her River.