The Women Rest Their Tired Half-healed Hearts;

I'll Lie Here And Learn How, Over Their Ground, Trees Make A Long Shadow And A Light Sound.

Once Form Has Been Smashed, It Has Been Smashed For Good, And Once A Forbidden Subject Has Been Released, It Has Been Released For Good.

I Hope That One Or Two Immortal Lyrics Will Come Out Of All This Tumbling Around.

All Art, In Spite Of The Struggles Of Some Critics To Prove Otherwise, Is Based On Emotion And Projects Emotion.

The Fact, And The Intuition Or Logic About The Fact, Are Severe Coordinates In Fiction. In The Short Story They Must Cross With Hair-line Precision.