When She Kissed Him, He Melted Like

Your Anger Was A Climate I Inhabited Like A Desert In A Dry Frigid Weather Of High Thin Air And Ivory Sun, Sand Dunes The Wind Lifted Into Stinging Clouds That Blinded And Choked Me Where The Only Ice Was In The Blood.

We Seek Not Rest But Transformation. We Are Dancing Through Each Other As Doorways.

Too Much Self-regard Has Never Struck Me As Dignified: Trying To Twist Over My Shoulder To View My Own Behind.

The Anger Of The Weak Never Goes Away, Professor, It Just Gets A Little Moldy. It Molds Like A Beautiful Blue Cheese In The Dark, Growing Stronger, And More Interesting. The Poor And The Weak Die With All Their Anger Intact And Probably Those Angers Go On Growing In The Dark Of The Grave Like The Hair And The Nails.

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.