I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
I like you; your eyes are full of language." [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]
Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.
For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
Look to your heart that flutters in and out like a moth. God is not indifferent to your need. You have a thousand prayers but God has one.
Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.