Poetry Is Life Distilled.

At A Certain Moment In Social Proceedings, I Am On Fire To Leave: I Have A Leaving-fit.

Even If You Are Not Ready For Day It Cannot Always Be Night.

My Last Defense / Is The Present Tense.

The Forties And Fifties Were Years Of High Poet-incense; The Language-flowers Were Thickly Sweet. Those Flowers Whined And Begged White Folks To Pick Them, To Find Them Lovable. Then The '60s: Independent Fire!

There Can Be No Whiter Whiteness Than This One: An Insurance Man's Shirt On Its Morning Run.