Everyone Has Left Me Except My Muse,

Maybe I Am Becoming A Hermit, Opening The Door For Only A Few Special Animals? Maybe My Skull Is Too Crowded And It Has No Opening Through Which To Feed It Soup?

I Like You; Your Eyes Are Full Of Language." [letter To Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]

Today Life Opened Inside Me Like An Egg.

No Matter Whose Bed You Die In The Bed Will Be Yours For Your Voyage Onto The Surgical Andiron Of God.

There Is Rust In My Mouth,the Stain Of An Old Kiss.