I'm Sorry To Say That

Most Of Humanity Gets By Without Reading Novels Or Poetry, And No One Would Deny The Richness Of Their Thoughts.

From This New And Intimate Perspective, She Learned A Simple, Obvious Thing She Had Always Known, And Everyone Knew; That A Person Is, Among All Else, A Material Thing, Easily Torn, Not Easily Mended.

Dying In Unfamiliar Surroundings Miles Away From Home, It Cannot Possibly Be Good. There Is A Great Sadness About That I Think.

This Is The Pain-pleasure Of Having Newly Adult Children; They're Innocent And Ruthless In Forgetting Their Sweet Old Dependence.

This Commonplace Cycle Of Falling Asleep And Waking, In Darkness, Under Private Cover, With Another Creature, A Pale Soft Tender Mammal, Putting Faces Together In A Ritual Of Affection, Briefly Settled In The Eternal Necessities Of Warmth, Comfort, Safety, Crossing Limbs To Draw Nearer - A Simple Daily Consolation, Almost Too Obvious, Easy To Forget By Daylight.