The classics can console. But not enough.

She's a rare vase, out of a cat's reach, on its shelf.

How can I turn from Africa and live?

I try to forget what happiness was, and when that don't work, I study the stars.

The mirror is believed the way a poem is believed. It's believed because it's there.

We make too much of that long groan which underlines the past.

Damn wind shift sudden as a woman mind.