Writing Is An Undertaking For The Modest.

The Ocean, Under The Pulsation Of Lighthouses And Noise Of Bell Buoys, Advances As Usual, Looking As If It Were Not That Ocean In Which Dropped Things Are Bound To Sink-- In Which If They Turn And Twist, It Is Neither With Volition Nor Consciousness.

Of The Crow-blue Mussel Shells, One Keeps Adjusting The Ash Heaps; Opening And Shutting Itself Like An Injured Fan.

My Father Used To Say, "superior People Never Make Long Visits, Have To Be Shown Longfellows Grave, Or The Glass Flowers At Harvard."

Victory Won't Come To Me Unless I Go To It; A Grape Tendril Ties A Knot In Knots Till Knotted Thirty Times

The Sweet Air Coming Into Your House On A Fine Day, From Water Etched With Waves As Formal As The Scales On A Fish.