Ever Since I Was Small I Loved

I Do Not Know Who I Am, Where I Am Going - And I Am The One Who Has To Decide The Answers To These Hideous Questions.

Now I Know What Loneliness Is, I Think. Momentary Loneliness, Anyway. It Comes From A Vague Core Of The Self - - Like A Disease Of The Blood, Dispersed Throughout The Body So That One Cannot Locate The Matrix, The Spot Of Contagion.

The Claw Of The Magnolia, Drunk On Its Own Scents, Asks Nothing Of Life.

How Frail The Human Heart Must Be - A Mirrored Pool Of Thought.

For Me, Poetry Is An Evasion Of The Real Job Of Writing Prose.