Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting.
What is done is done for the love of it- or not really done at all.
The sidelong glance is what you depend on.
Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat.
Something sinister in the tone Told me my secret must be known: Word I was in the house alone Somehow must have gotten abroad, Word I was in my life alone, Word I had no one left but God.
A civilized society is one which tolerates eccentricity to the point of doubtful sanity.