Hope Sleeps In Our Bones Like A

When She Kissed Him, He Melted Like A Lump Of Milk Chocolate.

It Hurts To Love Wide Open Stretching The Muscles... It Hurts To Thwart The Reflexes Of Grab, Of Clutch; To Love And Let Go Again And Again.

On This Twelfth Day Of My Diet I Would Rather Die Satiated Than Slim.

I Want To Be With People Who Submerge In The Task, Who Go Into The Fields To Harvest And Work In A Row And Pass The Bags Along, Who Are Not Parlor Generals And Field Deserters But Move In A Common Rhythm When The Food Must Come In Or The Fire Be Put Out. The Work Of The World Is Common As Mud. Botched, It Smears The Hands, Crumbles To Dust. But The Thing Worth Doing Well Done Has A Shape That Satisfies, Clean And Evident.

You Are Built To Pull A Cart, To Lift A Heavy Load And Bear It, To Haul Up The Long Slope, And So Am I, Peasant Bodies, Earthy, Solid Shapely Dark Glazed Clay Pots That Can Stand On The Fire.