Love Is Our Human Miracle.

I Loved Them All The Way One Loves At Any Age -- If It's Real At All -- Obsessively, Painfully, With Wild Exultation, With Guilt, With Conflict; I Wrote Poems To And About Them, I Put Them Into Novels (disguised Of Course); I Brooded Upon Why They Were As They Were, So Often Maddening Don't You Know? I Wrote Them Ridiculous Letters. I Lived With Their Faces. I Knew Their Every Gesture By Heart. I Stalked Them Like Wild Animals. I Studied Them As If They Were Maps Of The World -- And In A Way I Suppose They Were.

For Me The Moral Dilemma This Past Year Has Been How To Make Peace With The Unacceptable.

We Only Keep What We Lose.

When It Comes To The Important Things One Is Always Alone.

Time Spent With Poets Is Never Wasted.