When I Quit All These Things And

When Anyone Escapes, My Heart / Leaps Up. Even When It's I Who Am Escaped From, / I Am Half On The Side Of The Leaver.

At One Point I Took On A New Job, And I Just Didn't Have Time To Do Anything But Work.

Writing Or Making Anything-a Poem, A Bird Feeder, A Chocolate Cake-has Self-respect In It. You're Working. You're Trying. You're Not Lying Down On The Ground, Having Given Up.

My Poems - I Don't Even Like The Sound Of That, In A Way. Not That Anyone Else Wrote Them. But We Know That Only People Who Are Really Close To Us Care About Our Personal Experience.

The Amount Of Horror One Used To Hear About In One Village Could Be Quite Extreme. But One Might Not Have Heard About All The Other Villages' Horrors At The Same Time.