Now I Become Myself. It’s Taken Time,

One Of The Springs Of Poetry Is Joy.

What Can I Have That I Still Want?

Light Is Snow Sifted / To An Abstraction.

I Live Alone, Perhaps For No Good Reason, For The Reason That I Am An Impossible Creature, Set Apart By A Temperament I Have Never Learned To Use As It Could Be Used, Thrown Off By A Word, A Glance, A Rainy Day, Or One Drink Too Many. My Need To Be Alone Is Balanced Against My Fear Of What Will Happen When Suddenly I Enter The Huge Empty Silence If I Cannot Find Support There. I Go Up To Heaven And Down To Hell In An Hour, And Keep Alive Only By Imposing Upon Myself Inexorable Routines. I Write Too Many Letters And Too Few Poems.

Making Order Out Of Disorder Any Time, Anywhere, Can Be Regarded As A Sacrament.