Novels are about other people and poems are about yourself.

Here is an unfenced existance

Many modern novels have a beginning, a muddle and an end.

On me your voice falls as they say love should, Like an enormous yes.

Now, helpless in the hollow of An unarmorial age, a trough Of smoke in slow suspended skeins Above their scrap of history, Only an attitude remains: Time has transfigured them into Untruth. The stone finality They hardly meant has come to be Their final blazon, and to prove Our almost-instinct almost true: What will survive of us is love.

Everyone should be forcibly transplanted to another continent from their family at the age of three.

Dear, I can't write, it's all a fantasy: a kind of circling obsession.