Widow. The Word Consumes Itself.

Death May Whiten In Sun Or Out Of It.

I Had Imagined A Kind, Ugly, Intuitive Man Looking Up And Say, 'ah!' In An Encouraging Way, As If He Could See Something I Couldn't, And Then I Would Find Words To Tell Him How I Was So Scared, As If I Were Being Stuffed Farther And Farther Into A Black, Airless Sack With No Way Out.

I Don't See,' I Said, 'how People Stand Being Old. Your Insides All Dry Up. When You're Young You're So Self-reliant. You Don't Even Need Much Religion.

To Annihilate The World By Annihilation Of Oneself Is The Deluded Height Of Desperate Egoism.

For Me, Poetry Is An Evasion Of The Real Job Of Writing Prose.