And if sun comes / How shall we greet him? / Shall we not dread him, / Shall we not fear him / After so lengthy a / Session with shade?

The forties and fifties were years of high poet-incense; the language-flowers were thickly sweet. Those flowers whined and begged white folks to pick them, to find them lovable. Then the '60s: Independent fire!

It is brave to be involved. To be not fearful to be unresolved.

People like definite decisions, / Tidy answers, all the little ravelings / Snipped off, the lint removed, they / Hop happily among their roughs / Calling what they can't clutch insanity / Or saintliness.

Art hurts. Art urges voyages - and it is easier to stay at home.

Exhaust the little moment. Soon it dies. And be it gash or gold it will not come again in this identical guise.

What, what am I to do with all of this life?