Whom Can I Ask What I Came

Death Is The Stone Into Which Our Oblivion Hardens.

The Typewriter Separated Me From A Deeper Intimacy With Poetry, And My Hand Brought Me Closer To That Intimacy Again.

He Who Has Nothing—it Has Been Said Many Times—has Nothing To Lose But His Chains.

Poetry Is An Act Of Peace.

My Feet Will Want To Walk To Where You Are Sleeping But I Shall Go On Living.