Everywhere, giant finned cars nose forward like fish; a savage servility slides by on grease.

Everywhere, giant finned cars nose forward like fish; a savage servility slides by on grease.

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 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.

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

Most poetry is very formal, but when a modern poet is formal he gets more attention for it than old poets did.

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