Here's the final poem of my pillow book, to make up the mystical number of thirty-three:
33. I mark my place in books
xxxI mark my place in books with bits of trash. A bus ticket in Great Expectations. A grocery receipt in Beyond Good and Evil. In The Ambassadors an old postcard from Singapore. It occurs to me this morning while shelving my books that I mark my place in men with bits of my body. My dick in Todd. Big toe in Doug. Eric, whom I thought I was done with, has my left elbow. The beautiful boy last night who did not give his name has all of my fingers holding him open.