Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain: A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --

I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.

The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm

Sometimes I feel like I'm not solid. I'm hollow. There's nothing behind my eyes. I'm a negative of a person. All I want is blackness, blackness and silence.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.

Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.

I am terrified by this dark thing That sleeps in me; All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.