Only My Books Anoint Me, And A

Not That It Was Beautiful, But That I Found Some Order There.

I Like You; Your Eyes Are Full Of Language." [letter To Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]

I Can Only Sign Over Everything, The House, The Dog, The Ladders, The Jewels, The Soul, The Family Tree, The Mailbox. Then I Can Sleep. Maybe.

The Stars Are Pears That No One Can Reach, Even For A Wedding. Perhaps For A Death.

Now I Am Just An Elderly Lady Who Is Full Of Spleen, Who Humps Around Greater Boston In A God-awful Hat, Who Never Lived And Yet Outlived Her Time, Hating Men And Dogs And Democrats.