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“He was beautiful, that was always affirmed, but his beauty was hard to fix or to see, for he was always glimmering, flickering, melting, mixing, he was the shape of a shapeless flame, he was the eddying thread of needle-shapes in the shapeless mass of the waterfall. He was the invisible wind that hurried the clouds in billows and ribbons. You could see a bare tree on the skyline bent by the wind, holding up twisted branches and bent twigs, and suddenly its formless form would resolve itself into that of the trickster.”

“I inherited hunger, popped jaw, all teeth, & father taught me how to feast.”

“my love is a graceless, heaving thing”

“[…] The wind is an open sore. I’m all roots and burn Mom, I’m burning Mom, I’m burning Mom, I’m burning.”

“What is that stain spreading from your neck to your knees to your doorstep to your ridiculous glass-like soul that was supposed to outlast the centuries, outlive the galaxies, survive the rules of love, master the odds of war and transcend all seven level oceans of Homer?”