Life Is First Boredom, Then Fear.

Home Is So Sad. It Stays As It Was Left, / Shaped To The Comfort Of The Last To Go / As If To Win Them Back

Uncontradicting Solitude Supports Me On Its Giant Palm; And Like A Sea-anemone Or Simple Snail, There Cautiously Unfolds, Emerges, What I Am.

The Poetic Impulse Is Distinct From Ideas About Things Or Feelings About Things, Though It May Use These. It's More Like A Desire To Separate A Piece Of One's Experience & Set It Up On Its Own, An Isolated Object Never To Trouble You Again, At Least Not For A Bit. In The Absence Of This Impulse Nothing Stirs.

I Think That At The Bottom Of All Art Lies The Impulse To Preserve.

If You Tell A Novelist, 'life's Not Like That', He Has To Do Something About It. The Poet Simply Replies, 'no, But I Am.'