I never had much education in English poetry as such.

I don't read reviews and I don't know what to do with opinions, so I just lose them. They take up space, they become a process of manufacturing a persona, which I want to avoid.

Those nights lying alone are not discontinuous with this cold hectic dawn. It is who I am.

When I desire you a part of me is gone.

He came after Homer and before Gertrude Stein, a difficult interval for a poet.

It is for God to fix the time who knows no time.

That night we made love "the real way" which we had not yet attempted although married six months. Big mystery. No one knew where to put their leg and to this day I'm not sure we got it right. He seemed happy. You're like Venice he said beautifully. Early next day I wrote a short talk ("On Defloration") which he stole and had published in a small quarterly magazine. Overall this was a characteristic interaction between us. Or should I say ideal. Neither of us had ever seen Venice.