1. Of all desires, to be bare is the most difficult—the pure lack of clothes, the honesty of skin, the stripping of flesh to the bone. In my dreams, I would sometimes be naked and the element of pleasure comes too late, and only amidst the epiphany of thin blankets.
2. How cunning spaces are, how thoroughly we exploit them with our poetry. I know of this, because of two nights. The first I have drowned with liquor, to murder prudence. I thought: your cliffs are a wish for free fall. The second I have muted with whispers to build a tenuous bridge of conspiracy. I wanted then to reach your hand and find it warm and bare. But our game decided that I should reach, much further, in quite another direction, and find a different, less strange, less beautiful stranger.
3. I remember how I once often looked at someone’s fine mouth and remembered its corners, the shadow of the lips, its brazen messages that the eyes lacked. The uncouth fuzz on my own chin, the brief draw of a breath, then the memory of seawater at night, both cool and warm.