Sometimes I Fly Like An Eagle But

O Yellow Eye, Let Me Be Sick With Your Heat, Let Me Be Feverish And Frowning.

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

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

Take A Woman Talking, Purging Herself With Rhymes, Drumming Words Out Like A Typewriter, Planting Words In You Like Grass Seed. You'll Move Off.

You Must Be A Poet, A Lady Of Evil Luck Desiring To Be What You Are Not, Longing To Be What You Can Only Visit.