For We Did Makeup. But We Didn't

As A Matter Of Fact She Does Not Know To This Day If Those Words Were Spoken, Or If He Only Caught Her, Wound His Arms Around Her, Held Her So Tightly, With Such Continual, Changing Pressures That It Seemed More Than Two Arms Were Needed, That She Was Surrounded By Him, His Body Strong And Light, Demanding And Renouncing All At Once, As If He Was Telling Her She Was Wrong To Give Up On Him, Everything Was Possible, But Then Again That She Was Not Wrong, He Meant To Stam Himself On Her And Go.

Few People, Very Few, Have A Treasure, And If You Do You Must Hang Onto It. You Must Not Let Yourself Be Waylaid, And Have It Taken From You.

Anecdotes Don't Make Good Stories. Generally I Dig Down Underneath Them So Far That The Story That Finally Comes Out Is Not What People Thought Their Anecdotes Were About.

Who Can Ever Say The Perfect Thing To The Poet About His Poetry?

Pots Can Show Malice, The Patterns Of Linoleum Can Leer Up At You, Treachery Is The Other Side Of Dailiness.