Expecting rain, the profile of a day Wears its soul like a hat.

The summer demands and takes away too much. /But night, the reserved, the reticent, gives more than it takes

until only infinity remained of beauty

Poetry comes to me out of thin air or out of my unconscious mind. It's sort of the way dreams come to us and the way that we get knowledge from them, through television, old movies, which I watch a lot of. Lines of dialogue suddenly seem to be part of a poem.

A perfect example of the new republic's urge to drape itself with the togas of classical respectability.

Will occur as time grows more open about it.

... the first step of the terrible journey toward feeling somebody should act, that ends in utter confusion and hopelessness, east of the sun and west of the moon.