So I Kiss Him, And

And I A Smiling Woman. I Am Only Thirty. And Like The Cat I Have Nine Times To Die.

Do We Always Grind Through The Present, Doomed To Throw A Gold Haze Of Fond Retrospect Over The Past?

Every Day One Has To Earn The Name Of 'writer' Over Again, With Much Wrestling.

I Tried To Speak In A Cool, Calm Way, But The Zombie Rose Up In My Throat And Choked Me Off.

I Think My Poems Immediately Come Out Of The Sensuous And Emotional Experiences I Have, But I Must Say I Cannot Sympathise With These Cries From The Heart That Are Informed By Nothing Except A Needle Or A Knife, Or Whatever It Is.