I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.

What will survive of us is love.

The poetic impulse is distinct from ideas about things or feelings about things, though it may use these. It's more like a desire to separate a piece of one's experience & set it up on its own, an isolated object never to trouble you again, at least not for a bit. In the absence of this impulse nothing stirs.

Heads in the Women's Ward On pillow after pillow lies The wild white hair and staring eyes; Jaws stand open; necks are stretched With every tendon sharply sketched; A bearded mouth talks silently To someone no one else can see. Sixty years ago they smiled At lover, husband, first-born child. Smiles are for youth. For old age come Death's terror and delirium.

Here is an unfenced existance

One of the great criticisms of poets of the past is that they said one thing and did another.

Since the majority of me Rejects the majority of you, Debating ends forthwith, and we Divide.'' Philip Larkin