Winter kept us warm$$$ covering<br>Earth in forgetful snow.

The historical sense involves a perception$$$ not only of the pastness of the past$$$ but of its presence.

What have we given?<br>My friend$$$ blood shaking my heart<br>The awful daring of a moment's surrender<br>Which an age of prudence can never retract<br>By this$$$ and this only$$$ we have existed.

We ask only to be reassured<br>About the noises in the cellar<br>And the window that should not have been open.

Every experience is a paradox in that it means to be absolute$$$ and yet is relative; in that it somehow always goes beyond itself and yet never escapes itself.

Someone said$$$ 'The dead writers are remote from us because we know so much more than they did.' Precisely$$$ and they are that which we know.

I should have been a pair of ragged claws<br>Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

So I find words I never thought to speak<br>In streets I never thought I should revisit<br>When I left my body on a distant shore.

No man can begin to mould himself on a faith or an idea without rising to a higher order of experience.

I like trying to get pregnant. I'm not so sure about childbirth.