Suppose it were Friday lxiii: pitching from the apron

Away. What club do I use,

to carry this lie with just

enough backspin to hold the

green, without pulling up

short? How do I get to Car-

negie Hall, with just enough

practice? Thirty years from

now, how am I going to an-

swer the guy who is standing

here: Who's going to remind

me; who's going to say, I

ever knew?

Come, water.

For me, half the loveliness of

anarchy lies in how intimate its

challenges are: audacities never

inflicted by formality. And the

invigoration of formality lies in

how proficient its responses are:

mercies never extended by anarchy.

Some unforgettable ones traverse 
the apron between both lies. They
bring elegance, so to speak, to 
discretion, as much as the other 
way 'round.

Just sayin'.