I always say that one's poetry is a solace to oneself and a nuisance to one's friends.
In a family, the same spoken lines come in over and over. Intimacy exhausts.
Balance is compromise. Of the muscles.
I get up and I have coffee and I speak to no man and I go to my desk.
The young show the genetic process, the old merely die of it.
'Ms.' is a syllable which sounds like a bumble bee is breaking wind.