A GOLDEN STATE OF MIND

May my silences become more accurate.

London is enchanting. I step out upon a tawny coloured magic carpet, it seems, and get carried into beauty without raising a finger. The nights are amazing, with all the white porticos and broad silent avenues… One of these days I will write about London, and how it takes up the private life and carries it on, without any effort.

She had a perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day.

Think of days of those scarlet-breasted, blue-winged birds above you. Think of me in the garden, humming quietly to myself in my blue dress, a blue darker than the sky above us, a blue dark enough for storms, though cloudless.

I lost your melody in the weeds behind Waylon’s house

To die for love to die of love to die in love to die with love to die over love to die without love to die to love to die in the mine and be a “mine” in the arms of someone’s chest wound, “Here I will die of the above.”