I slide my arm from under the sleeper's head and it is numb, full of swarming pins, on the tip of each, waiting to be counted, the fallen angels sit.

Life lasts but a few scratches of the claw in the sand.

Even boredom should be described with gusto. How many things are happening on a day when nothing happens?

And whatever I do will become forever what I've done.

All is mine but nothing owned, nothing owned for memory, and mine only while I look.

Everyone needs solitude, especially a person who is used to thinking about what she experiences. Solitude is very important in my work as a mode of inspiration, but isolation is not good in this respect. I am not writing poetry about isolation.

I'm working on the world, revised, improved edition, featuring fun for fools blues for brooders, combs for bald pates, tricks for old dogs.