In New York One Lives In The

The Cold Winds Of Insecurity... Hadn't Shredded The Dreamy Chrysalis Of His Childhood. He Was Still Immersed In The Dim, Wet Wonder Of The Folded Wings That Might Open If Someone Loved Him; He Still Hoped, Probably, In A Butterfly's Unthinking Way, For Spring And Warmth. How The Wings Ache, Folded So, Waiting; That Is, They Ache Until They Atrophy.

It Is Death That Goes Down To The Center Of The Earth, The Great Burial Church The Earth Is, And Then To The Curved Ends Of The Universe, As Light Is Said To Do

I Feel Sorry For The Man Who Marries You... Because Everyone Thinks You're Sweet And You're Not.

Being Ill Like This Combines Shock - This Time I Will Die - With A Pain And Agony That Are Unfamiliar, That Wrench Me Out Of Myself.

I Look Upon Another's Insistence On The Merits Of His Or Her Life - Duties, Intellect, Accomplishment - And See That Most Of It Is Nonsense.