The One Thing I Was Good At

The Silence Depressed Me. It Wasn't The Silence Of Silence. It Was My Own Silence.

The Sun Gives You Ulcers, The Wind Gives You T.b. Once You Were Beautiful.

I Wanted Change And Excitement And To Shoot Off In All Directions Myself, Like The Colored Arrows From A Fourth Of July Rocket.

My Thoughts Are Crabbed And Sallow, My Tears Like Vinegar, Or The Bitter Blinking Yellow Of An Acetic Star. Tonight The Caustic Wind, Love, Gossips Late And Soon, And I Wear The Wry-faced Pucker Of The Sour Lemon Moon. While Like An Early Summer Plum, Puny, Green, And Tart, Droops Upon Its Wizened Stem My Lean, Unripened Heart.

Secretly, In Studies And Attics And Schoolrooms All Over America, People Must Be Writing.