A Garden Is Always A Series Of

When We Admit Our Vulnerability, We Include Others. If We Deny It, We Shut Them Out.

We Are Able To Laugh When We Achieve Detachment, If Only For A Moment.

I Live Alone, Perhaps For No Good Reason, For The Reason That I Am An Impossible Creature, Set Apart By A Temperament I Have Never Learned To Use As It Could Be Used, Thrown Off By A Word, A Glance, A Rainy Day, Or One Drink Too Many. My Need To Be Alone Is Balanced Against My Fear Of What Will Happen When Suddenly I Enter The Huge Empty Silence If I Cannot Find Support There. I Go Up To Heaven And Down To Hell In An Hour, And Keep Alive Only By Imposing Upon Myself Inexorable Routines. I Write Too Many Letters And Too Few Poems.

Try Making A Poem As If It Were A Table, Clear And Solid, Standing There Outside You.

It Is Curious How Any Making Of Order Makes One Feel Mentally Ordered, Ordered Inside.