A Black-sharded Lady Keeps Me In A

I Like People Too Much Or Not At All.

The Night Sky Is Only A Sort Of Carbon Paper, Blueblack, With The Much-poked Periods Of Stars Letting In The Light, Peephole After Peephole--- A Bonewhite Light, Like Death, Behind All Things.

The Door Of The Novel, Like The Door Of The Poem, Also Shuts. But Not So Fast, Nor With Such Manic, Unanswerable Finality.

I Had Decided I Would Put Off The Novel Until I Had Gone To Europe And Had A Lover.

My Worst Habit Is My Fear & My Destructive Rationalizing.