I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.

God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.

Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?

Let there be seasons so that our tongues will be rich in asparagus and limes.

Somebody who should have been born is gone.

But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.

Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.