I Write Only Because There Is A

But When I Took Up My Pen, My Hand Made Big, Jerky Letters Like Those Of A Child, And The Lines Sloped Down The Page From Left To Right Horizontally, As If They Were Loops Of String Lying On The Paper, And Someone Had Come Along And Blown Them Askew.

Doing All The Little Tricky Things It Takes To Grow Up, Step By Step, Into An Anxious And Unsettling World.

At Twenty I Tried To Die And Get Back, Back, Back To You. I Thought Even The Bones Would Do.

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

I Am Made, Crudely, For Success.