Nothing is without place,
in mind, in physical apprehension --
or if "a dagger of the mind" is the purpose,
hold on to it for dear life, or else kill somebody.
Just when I thought I had it made, I lost it.
Just when I knew what to do, I was an old man.
You hear that bird sing in the tree, there,
you know still what a tree is?
Love is a place, not a person, love is
a weather of time, a convenience to absent sorrows.
But talk is the cheapest of all, means what it wants to,
waits up for no one, always goes home alone.