They looked down on her; and she looked up through them.
We all write poems; it is simply that poets are the ones who write in words.
Alive. Alive in the way that death is alive.
It's like the day you realize dolls are dolls. I pick up my old self and I see it's silly. A toy I've played with too often. It's a little sad, like an old golliwog at the bottom of the cupboard. Innocent and used-up and proud and silly.
And I just can't live in this present. I would go mad if I did.
The American myth is of free will in its simple, primary sense. One can choose oneself and will oneself; and this absurdly optimistic assumption so dominates the republic that it has bred all its gross social injustices.