In the great cities, winter glitters with art and feasting. But poetry, the country cousin, sees only the dearth of the fields.
I read less and less. I have not forgiven books for their failure to tell me the truth and make me happy.
The older we become, the more certain our future.
The present necessarily betrays the past.
Birth dates and bathroom scales tell more truth than I want to know.
Memories contain hidden editorials on current events.