I too saw the wooden horse blocking the stars.
You can't write drunk.
Art is History's nostalgia, it prefers a thatched roof to a concrete factory, and the huge church above a bleached village.
She's a rare vase, out of a cat's reach, on its shelf.
Who cares about a kid from the Midwest writing pentameter? It's stupid.
The time will come when, with elation, you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror, and each will smile at the other’s welcome.