They fall oblique. The head’s pin tufts bobbing. They fall rough. Could be buffalo scruff, this duck baby down. They are alien meat. Perpendicular the wing joints conniving in emerald or aqua, splaying a murky diet of mindless plankton, algae sunbathing upstream. This is where water takes shape, the creaturely…

It’s true that I have always been partial to cemeteries. Every time I go to Boston and New Orleans I never fail to visit their cemeteries. In Paris I devote a whole afternoon to a picnic at the Cimetière Père Lachaise, surrounded by celebrities, to seek inspiration from some of my favorite writers, poets, artists and musicians…

I do believe that the soul has no sex. People who are convinced that they’ve lived before in other lives in previous times say that they’ve sometimes been men, and sometimes women, in those prior avatars.