It's that kind of choice of a woman - to go with the nice guy or the nasty guy. And I think that all women get to make that choice and they always go for the suave, nasty guy. It's a fact of life.
I hate my verses, every line, every word. Oh pale and brittle pencils ever to try One grass-blade's curve, or the throat of one bird That clings to twig, ruffled against white sky. Oh cracked and twilight mirrors ever to catch One color, one glinting flash, of the splendor of things.