06.13.2004

The art of speech is needed to alter fate
Shared information is not the same as shared thought

She never forgot the first time she dreamed in Spanish
Every door in the town was red, everything else the same as the real

Time wears on language—generations need new translations of the old
A song is self-renewing in a soul—always fresh as running water

06.12.2004

The days have entered the phase of winged feet
Early evenings certain grassy hills become reclining nudes

Destined for oblivion, daylight booms past like boxcars
Blood blossoms on white fabric; a grammar of the moon is in women