Poetry Is Not The Record Of An

I Want To Apologize For Plaguing You With So Many Telephone Calls Last November And December. When The 'enthusiasm' Is Coming On Me It Is Accompanied By A Feverish Reaching Out To My Friends. After Its Over I Wince And Wither.

Poetry Is Not The Record Of An Event: It Is An Event.

Middle Age At Forty-five, What Next, What Next? At Every Corner, I Meet My Father, My Age, Still Alive.

The Lord Survives The Rainbow Of His Will.

The World Is Absolutely Out Of Control Now And Is Not Going To Be Saved By Any Reason Or Unreason.