So there I went, crazy-mad in love again but looking for the door, the tentflap from triage,
the hole in the yurt that led to the freedom of the grasslands. When had love become that tight corset of
choking passion? It wasn't that I didn't love enough, I loved it all, I was a frying pantheist.

Tonight the stars will come out in the darkening, hiding the skidmarks that the planes
make across the sky like the dark hides the skidmarks in his wadded pants by the river, and
he'll grin at me with all the power of the waning sun and he'll talk, trying to explain the meaning of
life like I don't already know. "Hey baybee, it's like Goethe and Charlie Parker, you know.
It takes hands to wash hands, girlie-doodle. You got to give to receive..." and I'll ask him
if he wants some eggs......