Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.

Don't let the wicked city get you down.

I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.

There ought, I thought, to be a ritual for being born twice - patched, retreaded and approved for the road.

I think that in poetry personal experience is very important, but certainly it shouldn't be a kind of shut-box and mirror looking, narcissistic experience. I believe it should be relevant, and relevant to the larger things, the bigger things such as Hiroshima and Dachau and so on.

And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die.

I feel self-repressed again. The old fall disease. Where is my willpower? The idea of a life gets in the way of my life...I dream too much, work too little.