I have gone into the waste lonely places

What have I done, dear God, to deserve this perpetual feeling that I'm almost ready to begin something really new?

I am overwhelmed by the beautiful disorder of poetry, the eternal virginity of words.

In this place of light: he dares to live Who stops being a bird, yet beats his wings Against the immense immeasurable emptiness of things.

The darkness has it's own light.

O Lord, may I never want to look good. O Jesus, may I always read it all: out loud and the very way it should be. May I never look at the other findings until I have come to my own true conclusions: May I care for the least of the young: and become aware of the one poem that each may have written; may I be aware of what each thing is, delighted with form, and wary of the false comparison; may I never use the word "brilliant."

The visible exhausts me. I am dissolved in shadow.