Shoes twisted into incredible lilies.
Love is unworldly and nothing comes of it but love.
What "love" is I don't know if it's not the response of our deepest natures to one another.
A poem is a small machine made of words.
Outside, the north wind, coming and passing, swelling and dying, lifts the frozen sand drives it a-rattle against the lidless windows and we may dear sit stroking the cat stroking the cat and smiling sleepily, prrrr.
Somewhere the sense makes copper roses steel roses — The rose carried weight of love but love is at an end — of roses It is at the edge of the petal that love waits.