I Was Overcome With An Attack Of

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

We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us Holds A Locked Razor.

And Blue-lung'd Combers Lumbered To The Kill.

It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.

I'm Sure That Writing Isn't A Craft, That Is, Something For Which You Learn The Skills And Go On Turning Out. It Must Come From Some Deep Impulse, Deep Inspiration. That Can't Be Taught, It Can't Be What You Use In Teaching.