The poet: would rather eat a heart than a hambone.
What falls away is always. And is near.
Pain wanders through my bones like a lost fire
A lively understandable spirit Once entertained you. It will come again. Be still. Wait.
You must believe a poem is a holy thing, a good poem, that is.
What have I done, dear God, to deserve this perpetual feeling that I'm almost ready to begin something really new?