Pleasure is the carrot dangled to lead the ass to market; or the precipice.

Well: the day is a poem but too much Like one of Jeffers's, crusted with blood and barbaric omens Painful to excess, inhuman as a hawk's cry.

Seagulls . . . slim yachts of the element.

I've changed my ways a little, I cannot now Run with you in the evenings along the shore, Except in a kind of dream, and you, if you dream a moment, You see me there.

The tides are in our veins, we still mirror the stars, life is your child, but there is in me Older and harder than life and more impartial, the eye that watched before there was an ocean.

Still the mind smiles at its own rebellions.

Corruption never has been compulsory; when the cities lie at the monster's feet there are left the mountains.