What We Think
What we think we’ve lost, we never had at all. What we think we have, we never really can or will. What we think is what we think we think, until . . . . [ 1763 ]
Ever and One
A new day breaking into bloom. Dust in my room. Waltz with my broom. . [ 1762 ]
Good to See You
You haven’t changed a bit — ( those childhood years chiseled in stone pillar and bone time wears on ) . [ 1761 ]
Slip and Shod
When slip met shod, one barefoot, the other odd, they said, It’s come to this? one shake, the other nod, one dip, the other mod, as if awed were flawed and flip were bliss a kiss away from god, then, you guessed it, on they trod, one trip, the other plod. . [ 1760 ]
Nine Lives or One
I’ve known a few cool cats, but most have been loaves of bread, purrers and posers, a few owls among them, nightstalkers, softwalkers, streetlight ramblers, and poets like Kerouac, nine lives or one, not knowing which they’re on, fenceposts, railcars, food dishes, wine bottles, tambourines, or bongo drums — like, meow, man, and they still carry on. . [ 1759 ]
What Made Me Think
If happiness and joy could be summoned with effort, just think how happy and joyful we would be; still we try, and are undone by trying; what made me think of this? a cloudy, misty dawn; my heart beating; the universe rolling on . . [ 1758 ]
Garden Song
I found myself at shovel’s depth, sweet loam above and more below than I could imagine; first my knees, then my hands — I’d never felt such welcome; my face, my breath — I no longer cared to stand, let my limbs sink in as a favorite story might begin; and when I reached the end, I awoke to death, and pulled the shovel out again. . [ 1757 ]
Good Music
There’s an art to losing your way: never lose it just to say you forgot to live, or give, today; and don’t confuse it, pray, with child’s play; let it be good music when you’re old and gray. . [ 1756 ]
A Tale of Two Sittings
He had a funny chair, and that was all he knew, that when he sat in it, his feet turned slowly blue, and his brain, for want of oxygen, could not undo his grim despair — it was strange, but it was true, that he grew old and mad in it, until, at last, he never moved from there. . [ 1755 ]
We Could Make It Anything
The full moon is like . . . we could make it anything, the copper bottom of a stainless steel pan, or an orange we glad it is what it is instead of what we imagine? . [ 1754 ]
William Michaelian 
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