We feel the machine slipping from our hands As if someone else were steering; If we see light at the end of the tunnel, It's the light of the oncoming train.

Sometimes nothing is so solid to me as writing - I suppose that's what a vocation means - at times a torment, a bad conscience, but all in all, purpose and direction.

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

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

Talking about the past is like a cat's trying to explain climbing down a ladder.

In the end, there is no end.

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