The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said.

Sex means nothing--just the moment of ecstasy, that flares and dies in minutes.

Here is an unfenced existance

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

Deprivation is for me what daffodils were for Wordsworth.

And the case of butterflies so rich it looks As if all summer settled there and died.

Any memory for the most part depending on chance.