Poetry Is Either Something That Lives Like

He Snatched Out His Hand Desperately As If To Snatch Only A Wisp Of Air, To Save A Fragment Of The Spot That She Had Made Lovely For Him. But It Was All Going By Too Fast Now For His Burred Eyes And He Knew That He Had Lost That Part Of It, The Freshest And The Best, Forever.

Who Would Not Be Pleased At Carrying Lamps Helpfully Through The Darkness?

He Looked At Her The Way All Women Want To Be Looked At By A Man.

She Saw Something Awful In The Very Simplicity She Failed To Understand.

But I Felt That Tom Would Drift On Forever Seeking, A Little Wistfully, For The Dramatic Turbulence Of Some Irrecoverable Football Game