This morning of the small snow I count the blessings, the leak in the faucet which makes of the sink time, the drop of the water on water.
You don't help people in your poems. I've been trying to help people all my life - that's my trouble
Fact is based upon vulgar matter.
The heroes of the present will retreat to the imitation they are anyhow.
O.K. I'm running out of appetite. Let this swirl- a bit like Crab Nebula- do for now.
We all want what's been suddenly disallowed.