Life is a picnic on a precipice.
Between friends differences in taste or opinion are irritating in direct proportion to their triviality.
A poet's hope: to be, like some valley cheese, local, but prized elsewhere.
When one looks into the window of a store which sells devotional art objects, one can't help wishing the iconoclasts had won.
Our claim to our own bodies and our world is our catastrophe.
I'll love you till the ocean Is folded and hung up to dry And the seven stars go squawking Like geese about the sky.