O Remember In Your Narrowing

The Intellectual Is A Middle-class Product; If He Is Not Born Into The Class He Must Soon Insert Himself Into It, In Order To Exist. He Is The Fine Nervous Flower Of The Bourgeoisie.

Song, Like A Wing, Tears Through My Breast, My Side, And Madness Chooses Out My Voice Again, Again.

The Fact, And The Intuition Or Logic About The Fact, Are Severe Coordinates In Fiction. In The Short Story They Must Cross With Hair-line Precision.

Up From The Bronze, I Saw Water Without A Flaw Rush To Its Rest In Air Reach To Its Rest, And Fall.

I Don't Like Quintessential Certitude.