I Myself Am Hell; Nobody's Here

I Saw The Spiders Marching Through The Air, Swimming From Tree To Tree That Mildewed Day In Latter August When The Hay Came Creaking To The Barn.

I Want To Apologize For Plaguing You With So Many Telephone Calls Last November And December. When The 'enthusiasm' Is Coming On Me It Is Accompanied By A Feverish Reaching Out To My Friends. After Its Over I Wince And Wither.

Middle Age At Forty-five, What Next, What Next? At Every Corner, I Meet My Father, My Age, Still Alive.

What Can The Dove Of Jesus Give You Now But Wisdom, Exile? Stand And Live, The Dove Has Brought An Olive Branch To Eat.

Sometimes Nothing Is So Solid To Me As Writing - I Suppose That's What A Vocation Means - At Times A Torment, A Bad Conscience, But All In All, Purpose And Direction.