By Daily Dying, I Have Come To

I Wish I Could Find An Event That Meant As Much As Simple Seeing.

I Can't Go On Flying Apart Just For Those Who Want The Benefit Of A Few Verbal Kicks. My God, Do You Know What Poems Like That Cost? They're Not Written Vicariously: They Come Out Of Actual Suffering, Real Madness.

Fear Was My Father, Father Fear. His Look Drained The Stones.

The Damage Of Teaching: The Constant Contact With The Undeveloped.

What Have I Done, Dear God, To Deserve This Perpetual Feeling That I'm Almost Ready To Begin Something Really New?