The Art Of Losing Isn't

The Armored Cars Of Dreams, Contrived To Let Us Do So Many A Dangerous Thing.

If After I Read A Poem The World Looks Like That Poem For 24 Hours Or So I'm Sure It's A Good One—and The Same Goes For Paintings.

Something Needn't Be Large To Be Good.

It Was Cold And Windy, Scarcely The Day To Take A Walk On That Long Beach Everything Was Withdrawn As Far As Possible, Indrawn: The Tide Far Out, The Ocean Shrunken, Seabirds In Ones Or Twos. The Rackety, Icy, Offshore Wind Numbed Our Faces On One Side; Disrupted The Formation Of A Lone Flight Of Canada Geese; And Blew Back The Low, Inaudible Rollers In Upright, Steely Mist.

Hoping To Live Days Of Greater Happiness, I Forget That Days Of Less Happiness Are Passing By.