Sometimes I think: I'm flying. And why am I flying? Because of the dress. The flesh, I think, is multiplying itself. Here are the children, I think, going away from me and coming to me. If all is one, I think, why this split?

My body of thought is likewise made of a womb of wombs. Whatever it begets begets its own body [in this sense I may be said to be multiparous].

I am beautiful like a snip of ivory. My face is like the negative of another woman's face. Whatever she does I do moving backward.

I spread a hundred fingers up against the wind and the wind dries the lacquer. At these parties I have no given name. I may be called Flora and I may be called Rosamund. The images of color that I set up in space redeem me.

In the morning. After the dreams....

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