Being a poet is one of the unhealthier jobs--no regular hours, so many temptations!

I was made at right angles to the world and I see it so. I can only see it so.

Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

What childishness is it that while there's breath of life in our bodies, we are determined to rush to see the sun the other way around?

The armored cars of dreams, contrived to let us do so many a dangerous thing.

Dreams were the worst. Of course I dreamed of food and love, but they were pleasant rather than otherwise. But then I'd dream of things like slitting a baby's throat, mistaking it for a baby goat. I'd have nightmares of other islands stretching away from mine, infinities of islands, islands spawning islands, like frogs' eggs turning into polliwogs of islands, knowing that I had to live on each and every one, eventually, for ages, registering their flora, their fauna, their geography.

Hoping to live days of greater happiness, I forget that days of less happiness are passing by.