Miracles occur, If you dare to call those spasmodic Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again, The long wait for the angel, For that rare, random descent.

Now I know what loneliness is, I think. Momentary loneliness, anyway. It comes from a vague core of the self - - like a disease of the blood, dispersed throughout the body so that one cannot locate the matrix, the spot of contagion.

Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing, which remark I guess shows I still don't have a pure motive (O it's-such-fun-I-just-can't-stop-who-cares-if-it's-published-or-read) about writing.

I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.

I think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.

I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps out Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

I felt myself melting into the shadows like the negative of a person I'd never seen before in my life.