A lightning-phrase, as if shot from the quiver of infallible wisdom
A list of our unread books torments some of us like a list of murders
A little breeze ran through the corn like a swift serpent
A little weed-clogged ship, gray as a ghost
A long slit of daylight like a pointing finger
A memory like a well-ordered cupboard
A mighty wind, like a leviathan, plowed the brine
A mind very like a bookcase
A mystery, soft, soothing and gentle, like the whisper of a child murmuring its happiness in its sleep
A name which sounds even now like the call of a trumpet