Open the book. (The gilt rubs off the edges of the pages and pollinates the fingertips.)

Close, close all night the lovers keep. They turn together in their sleep, Close as two pages in a book that read each other in the dark. Each knows all the other knows, learned by heart from head to toes.

Heaven is not like flying or swimming, but has something to do with blackness and a strong glare.

The pigs stuck out their little feet and snored.

Ports are necessities, like postage stamps or soap, but they seldom seem to care what impressions they make.

Someone loves us all.

There are some people whom we envy not because they are rich or handsome or successful, although they may be all or any of these, but because everything they are or do seems to be all of a piece, so that even if they wanted to they could not be or do otherwise.