Nothing is the destiny of everyone, it is our commonness made dumb.
It's very hard to write humor.
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth. There is no happiness like mine. I have been eating poetry.
The burial of feelings has begun.
And Robert Lowell, of course - in his poems, we're not located in his actual life. We're located more in the externals, in the journalistic facts of his life.
Even this late it happens the coming of love, the coming of light. You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves, stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows, sending up warm bouquets of air. Even this late the bones of the body shine and tomorrow’s dust flares into breath.