Love is our human miracle.
Death does frame a person and somehow it is the good that stays.
Inside my mother's death / I lay and could not breathe.
I am furious at all the letters to answer, when all I want to do is think and write poems. ... I long for open time, with no obligations except toward the inner world and what is going on there.
Without anxiety life would have very little savor.
In poetry compromise is fatal. In action of any cooperative sort it is inevitable. The thing is to find the balance.