He found that it was no good trying to tell what happened that day. Everything he said seemed fictional the moment that he said it, the rain, the scent of her hair, what she said as she was leaving, and why it was important for him to explain that the car had been parked under eucalyptus on a hillside, and how velvety and blurred the trees looked through the windshield; not, he said, that making fictions might not be the best way of getting at it, but that nothing he said had the brute, abject, unassimilated quality of a wounding experience: the ego in any telling was already seeing itself as a character, and a character, he said, was exactly what he was not at that moment, even as he kept wanting to explain to someone, to whomever would listen, that she had closed the door so quietly and so firmly that the beads of rain on the side window didn't even quiver. from September Notebook: Stories Robert Hass
I Like your eyelids' commotion the blood moves at the nape the nape of your neck, when down your back there pours the marvel your combing reveals. II In my hand the traits of your heart, memento of when you were here in the hand that I bite. III The butterfly encumbering your sky each evening with its shadow's transience, lights on your shoulder to look like a rose. IV Your spotless soul, your lazy essence of an angel! Hot as flame your ear of a tigress rests against my cheek. V The fiery flower lies tattered in the gardens. You finger the branches. And dive in a thicket of shade, in love with the dark.