It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.

Perhaps you considered yourself an oracle, Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other. Thirty years now I have labored To dredge the silt from your throat. I am none the wiser.

And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.

A ring of gold with the sun in it? Lies. Lies and a grief.

How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.

The one man in the room who was as big as his poems, huge, with hulk and dynamic chunks of words.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)