When Sages Commend Excess, Desire Is Sick.

In The Great Cities, Winter Glitters With Art And Feasting. But Poetry, The Country Cousin, Sees Only The Dearth Of The Fields.

Explanations Comfort Us By Giving The Impression That There Is An Order In Things.

In The Street, The Gaze Of Desire Is Furtive Or Menacing.

At Retirement, Switching From "i Must" To "i Want" Leaves Me Puzzled And Uneasy.

If We Knew Enough, Fortune Would Turn Out To Be Nature.