Truth Is What Most Contradicts Itself.

How Grudging Memory Is, And How Bitterly She Clutches The Raw Material Of Her Daily Work.

To Write A Poem Is Like Trying To Catch A Lizard Without Its Tail Falling Off.

It Is Not Peace We Seek But Meaning.

Frost In January Minus 20 For A Week. Dead Birds Frozen On The Branch—they Fall With The First Thaw Like Ripe Fruit—death-ripened. We Shall All End Like Them—just A Stain In The Snow.

The Whole Mediterranean, The Sculpture, The Palm, The Gold Beads, The Bearded Heroes, The Wine, The Ideas, The Ships, The Moonlight, The Winged Gorgons, The Bronze Men, The Philosophers - All Of It Seems To Rise In The Sour, Pungent Taste Of These Black Olives Between The Teeth. A Taste Older Than Meat, Older Than Wine. A Taste As Old As Cold Water.