We're All Strange Inside. We Learn How

Change Itself Is What Fascinates Me. I Am Drawn, As A Moth To The Flame, By Edge Situations, By Situations Of Metamorphosis.

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.

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

And It May Be That Love Sometimes Occurs Without Pain Or Misery.

A Spinning Coin, Still Balanced On Its Rim, May Fall In Either Direction.