The Only Certain Freedom's In

Poetry Is What Is Lost In Translation. It Is Also What Is Lost In Interpretation.

He Burned His House Down For The Fire Insurance And Spent The Proceeds On A Telescope.

Like A Piece Of Ice On A Hot Stove The Poem Must Ride On Its Own Melting. . . . Read It A Hundred Times; It Will Forever Keep Its Freshness As A Metal Keeps Its Fragrance. It Can Never Lose Its Sense Of A Meaning That Once Unfolded By Surprise As It Went.

It Looked As If A Night Of Dark Intent Was Coming, And Not Only A Night, An Age. Someone Had Better Be Prepared For Rage.

Tolerance Is The Uncomfortable Feeling That In The End The Other Could Be Right.