The constant struggle in mature life, I think, is to accept the necessity of tragedy and conflict, and not to try to escape to some falsely simple solution which does not include these more somber complexities.

Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.

Cold glass, how you insert yourself Between myself and myself. I scratch like a cat. The blood that runs is dark fruit- An effect, a cosmetic. You smile. No, it is not fatal.

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

When I fell out of the light, I entered The stomach of indifference, the wordless cupboard.

The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.

I may never be happy, but tonight I am content. At times like this I'd call myself a fool to ask for more.