I think it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is.

If I correctly understand the sense of this succinct observation, our poet suggests here that human life is but a series of footnotes to a vast obscure unfinished masterpiece.

His wings were failing, but he refused to fall without a struggle.

Because you took advantage of my disadvantage.

I was the shadow of the waxwing slain/By the false azure in the windowpane.

And she was mine, she was mine, the key was in my fist, my fist was in my pocket, she was mine.

Those Eggheadsareterrible Philistines. A realgood head is not oval but round.