For After All We Make Our Faces

Poems Like To Have A Destination For Their Flight. They Are Homing Pigeons.

Making Order Out Of Disorder Any Time, Anywhere, Can Be Regarded As A Sacrament.

Innocence Is Not Pure So Much As Pleased, Always Expectant, Bright-eyed, Self-enclosed

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

It Is Harder For Women, Perhaps To Be 'one-pointed,' Much Harder For Them To Clear Space Around Whatever It Is They Want To Do Beyond Household Chores And Family Life. Their Lives Are Fragmented... The Cry Not So Much For A 'a Room Of One's Own' As Time Of One's Own. Conflict Become Acute, Whatever It May Be About, When There Is No Margin Left On Any Day In Which To Try At Least To Resolve It.