Ordinary Parties, He Thought, Were

But The Only Rhyme He Could Summon For 'out' Was 'sauerkraut,' Which Lacked Poetic Glory. He Let It Go. The Right Line Would Come In Time. That Was The Thing About Poetry. It Crept Up Through The Draws And Coulees Of The Brain.

We're All Strange Inside. We Learn How To Disguise Our Differences As We Grow Up.

Was Love Then Like A Bag Of Assorted Sweets Passed Around From Which One Might Choose More Than Once? Some Might Sting The Tongue, Some Invoke Night Perfume. Some Had Centers As Bitter As Gall, Some Blended Honey And Poison, Some Were Quickly Swallowed. And Among The Common Bull's-eyes And Peppermints A Few Rare Ones; One Or Two With Deadly Needles At The Heart, Another That Brought Clam And Gentle Pleasure. Were His Fingers Closing On That One?

And I Think That's Important, To Know How The Water's Gone Over The Dam Before You Start To Describe It. It Helps To Have Been Over The Dam Yourself.

Ordinary Parties, He Thought, Were Subtle Games Of Sexual And Social Badminton.