Dreams, You Know, Are What You Wake

It's Possible, In A Poem Or Short Story, To Write About Commonplace Things And Objects Using Commonplace But Precise Language, And To Endow Those Things—a Chair, A Window Curtain, A Fork, A Stone, A Woman's Earring—with Immense, Even Startling Power.

I Guess My Writing Has Changed As My Life Has.

It Ought To Make Us Feel Ashamed When We Talk Like We Know What We're Talking About When We Talk About Love.

And What Did You Want? To Call Myself Beloved, To Feel Myself Beloved On The Earth.

We Knew Our Days Were Numbered. We Had Fouled Up Our Lives And We Were Getting Ready For A Shake-up.