Someone loves us all.
The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
The armored cars of dreams, contrived to let us do so many a dangerous thing.
I was made at right angles to the world and I see it so. I can only see it so.
Icebergs behoove the soul (both being self-made from elements least visible) to see themselves: fleshed, fair, erected, indivisible.
Ports are necessities, like postage stamps or soap, but they seldom seem to care what impressions they make.