My Wanting To Write Books

I Had Decided I Would Put Off The Novel Until I Had Gone To Europe And Had A Lover.

I Have A Violence In Me That Is Hot As Death-blood.

Today Is The First Of August. It Is Hot, Steamy And Wet. It Is Raining. I Am Tempted To Write A Poem. But I Remember What It Said On One Rejection Slip: 'after A Heavy Rainfall, Poems Titled 'rain' Pour In From Across The Nation.

Winter Is For Women The Woman Still At Her Knitting, At The Cradle Of Spanish Walnut, Her Body A Bulb In The Cold And Too Dumb To Think.

I Have To Live My Life, And It Is The Only One I’ll Ever Have.