Content Is A Word Unknown

It Is Not Only Species Of Animal That Die Out, But Whole Species Of Feeling. And If You Are Wise You Will Never Pity The Past For What It Did Not Know, But Pity Yourself For What It Did.

The American Myth Is Of Free Will In Its Simple, Primary Sense. One Can Choose Oneself And Will Oneself; And This Absurdly Optimistic Assumption So Dominates The Republic That It Has Bred All Its Gross Social Injustices.

You're Not Me. You Can't Feel Like I Feel." "i Can Feel." "no You Can't. You Just Choose Not To Feel Or Something And Everything's Fine." "it's Not Fine. It's Just Not So Bad.

Think. In A Minute From Now You Could Be Saying, I Risked Death. I Threw For Life, And I Won Life. It Is A Very Wonderful Feeling. To Have Survived.

The Bowed Head, The Buried Face. She Is Silent, She Will Never Speak, Never Forgive, Never Reach A Hand, Never Leave This Frozen Present Tense. All Waits, Suspended. Suspended The Autumn Trees, The Autumn Sky, Anonymous People. A Blackbird, Poor Fool, Sings Out Of Season From The Willows By The Lake. A Flight Of Pigeons Over The Houses; Fragments Of Freedom, Hazard, An Anagram Made Flesh. And Somewhere The Stinging Smell Of Burning Leaves.