shopping list, right up there with the best of them,
the avocadoes and green zucchini, wild conjectures,
and girls waking in the morning.
all his life he wanted nothing but
to be loved and —yet—
no love was to be found,
even after six or seven of his
marriages—like a butterfly
he hovered in superifice,
one drop of honeyed dew to the next—
each successive one more bitter,
after the spell wore off—
and once more, Henry loved
was not, least by his
o, let's touch and say nothing, for words are such a waste, like a water of ducky's back. and heads, such a heady affair, but nothing to get a hold of really. for hands know everything. for hands know more than heads can ever know. and hearts even mean so little, are a pale second fiddle. no, let's have the hands touching, vibrating the only truth accessible to us.