I want to paint the livingness of appearances.
What of these evening storms
where foam becomes rock—wave
becomes cove. Inside the billow as
you always dreamed it would be
two men collapse into being.
Like so, the rocks give up their
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after Epictetus To gaze upon the fatal without commiserating gloom: what every friend should be— not one who rends her coat of doom nor one who lets her ankle rankle nor her dogged love to the hounds. Be the cat in catastrophe who survives eight more dives. Though in the clutch of damage a dame must age, in the crazy-quilt of guilt it was never your fault. In the company of morose always pull out the rose.