Middle Age At forty-five, What next, what next? At every corner, I meet my Father, My age, still alive.

We are all old-timers, each of us holds a locked razor.

Pity the planet, all joy gone from this sweet volcanic cone; peace to our children when they fall in small war on the heel of small war--until the end of time to police the earth, a ghost orbiting forever lost in our monotonous sublime

Middle Age At forty-five, What next, what next? At every corner, I meet my Father, My age, still alive.

I'm sure that writing isn't a craft, that is, something for which you learn the skills and go on turning out. It must come from some deep impulse, deep inspiration. That can't be taught, it can't be what you use in teaching.

Their monument sticks like a fishbone in the city's throat.

And blue-lung'd combers lumbered to the kill.