Don't Hoard The Past. Don't

Always Learn Poems By Heart. They Have To Become The Marrow In Your Bones. Like Fluoride In The Water, They'll Make Your Soul Impervious To The World's Soft Decay.

I Hated Labels Anyway. People Didn't Fit In Slots--prostitute, Housewife, Saint--like Sorting The Mail. We Were So Mutable, Fluid With Fear And Desire, Ideals And Angles, Changeable As Water.

We Parked In Back And Walked Down The Stairs With Their Polished Brass Railings, Past The Old-fashioned Kitchen. We Could See The Chefs Cooking. It Smelled Like Stew, Or Meat Loaf, The Way Time Should Smell, Solid And Nourishing.

Wasn't That The Way It Always Was? You Didn't Know, You Couldn't Tell, You Just Let It Happen... Perhaps They Didn't Know Themselves. Sometimes The Line Was Very Fine.

I Thought Clay Must Feel Happy In The Good Potter's Hand.