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

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

Insomnia" perhaps she's a daytime sleeper.

Think of the long trip home. Should we have stayed home and thought of here? Where should we be today?

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

Being a poet is one of the unhealthier jobs--no regular hours, so many temptations!

I am in need of music that would flow Over my fretful, feeling finger-tips, Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips, With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow. Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low, Of some song sung to rest the tired dead, A song to fall like water on my head, And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow! There is a magic made by melody: A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep To the subaqueous stillness of the sea, And floats forever in a moon-green pool, Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.