Poems have ideas. The ideas of poems come out of their emotions and their emotions are carried on images.

I worry about images. Images are what things mean.

It was evident to him that the world composed and recomposed itself constantly in an endless process of dissatisfaction.

Whenever citizens are seen routinely as enemies of their own government, writers are rountinely seen to be the most dangerous enemies.

There are moments when I cannot bear this unremitting consciousness. It knows only itself. Awake, I am in a continuum with my dreams. I feel my typewriters, my table, my chair to have that assurance of a solid world, where things take up space, where is not the endless emptiness of insubstantial thought that leads to nowhere but itself. My memories pale as I prevail upon them again and again. They become more and more ghostly. I fear nothing so much as losing them altogether and having only my blank endless mind to live in.

And so do people pass out of one's life and all you can remember of them is their humanity, a poor fitful thing of no dominion, like your own.

A new reader shouldn't be able to find you in your work, though someone who's read more may begin to.