It Was Here We Turned

Didn't You Tie The Mittens On Her Feet (wednesday Evening's) Extra Special Nice? Yes--she Is An Extra Special Nice Pigeon. She Cries For Pity When She Wants Pity. And She Shuts Her Eyes When She Doesn't Want To Look At You. And If You Look Deep In Her Eyes When Her Eyes Are Open You Will See Lights There Exactly Like The Lights On The Pastures And The Meadows When The Mist Is Drifting On A Wednesday Evening Just Between The Twilight And Gloaming.

I Have Always Felt That A Woman Has The Right To Treat The Subject Of Her Age With Ambiguity Until, Perhaps, She Passes Into The Realm Of Over Ninety. Then It Is Better She Be Candid With Herself And With The World.

Poetry Is A Theorem Of A Yellow-silk Handkerchief Knotted With Riddles, Sealed In A Balloon Tied To The Tail Of A Kite Flying In A White Wind Against A Blue Sky In Spring.

Poetry Is A Search For Syllables To Shoot At The Barriers Of The Unknown And The Unknowable.

To Be A Good Loser Is To Learn How To Win.