But Death's Acquisitive Instincts Will Win.

Me, My Literary Reputation Is Mostly Abroad, But I Am Anchored Here In New York. I Can't Think Of Any Other Place I'd Rather Die Than Here.

It Bothers Me That I Won't Live To See The End Of The Century, Because, When I Was Young, In St. Louis, I Remember Saying To Marilyn, My Sister By Adoption, That That Was How Long I Wanted To Live: Seventy Years.

I'm Sixty-two, And It's Ecological Sense To Die While You're Still Productive, Die And Clear A Space For Others, Old And Young.

Public Radio Is Alive And Kicking, It Always Has Been

The Cold Winds Of Insecurity... Hadn't Shredded The Dreamy Chrysalis Of His Childhood. He Was Still Immersed In The Dim, Wet Wonder Of The Folded Wings That Might Open If Someone Loved Him; He Still Hoped, Probably, In A Butterfly's Unthinking Way, For Spring And Warmth. How The Wings Ache, Folded So, Waiting; That Is, They Ache Until They Atrophy.