A Woman Who Thinks She Is Intelligent

Beautiful December Grapes, Blue As Plums, Every Grape A Little Skinful Of Sweet, Tasteless Water

Jealousy Is Not At All Low, But It Catches Us Humbled And Bowed Down, At First Sight.

Perhaps The Only Misplaced Curiosity Is That Which Persists In Trying To Find Out Here, On This Side Of Death, What Lies Beyond The Grave.

No Temptation Can Ever Be Measured By The Value Of Its Object.

A Few Days Later, I Found My Mother Beneath The Tree, Motionless With Excitement, Her Head Turned Toward The Heavens In Which She Would Allow Human Religions No Place.