Your thighs are appletrees. Your knees are a southern breeze.
Sun benches at the curb bespeak another season, truncated poplars that having served for shade served also later for the fire.
Time is a storm in which we are all lost.
I think all writing is a disease. You can't stop it.
For the beginning is assuredly the end- since we know nothing, pure and simple, beyond our own complexities.
The business of love is cruelty which, by our wills, we transform to live together.
