Please tell me how the shoehorn manages to keep Its shape the same for centuries. At dusk my ignorance Slips away and hides its eggs in the woods.

We all know when a great man or woman Is about to die; and we fight that. Many of the Jews Wanted to speak privately to Pilate.

Our parents’ faces at dawn have so much grief That they resemble those stone faces on Easter Island, gazing toward some missing Friday.

Iron and earth are an old couple who have lived Together for eons. As with all bad couples, It takes immense energy to separate them.

After every one of our wars, the newly dead Hold out a cup to us. What can we do But testify to a thousand years of darkness?

As a boy I saw the hitch slide off the drawbar. I sensed how difficult my life would be the night I heard the sound of iron hitting the ground.