You whom I hoped to reach by writ… you beyond the multicolored tangle of telephone wires, you with your white paper soul trampled in transit,

He says he is a perfect poet. He lives alone, with his perfect m… & sometimes they don’t even sp… So perfectly do they ‘communicate.… He lives alone, his greatest pleas…

The poet fears failure & so she says “Hold on pen— what if the critics hate me?”

Dearest man-in-the-moon, ever since our lunch of cheese & moonjuice on the far side of the sun, I have walked the craters of New…

When I am an old lady the young men will come to me & sit trembling at my trembling

Boswell– you old rake– I have tri… your style; but it is no use; my d… all between my selves: and though… make endless notes and jottings th… my memory– it is in vain– for in t…

Ash falls on the roof of my house. I have cursed you enough in the lines of my poems & between them,

I began by loving women & the love turned to bitterness. My mother, the bitter, whose bitter lesson–

The house of the body is a stately manor open for nothing never to the public. But

For Jennifer Josephy On cold days it is easy to be reasonable, to button the mouth against kisses… dust the breasts

You-the purest pleasure of my life, the split pit that proves the ripeness of the fruit,

On a darkening planet speeding toward our death, we pierce a rosy cloud & hit clean air,

‘Hotel rooms constitute a separate… —Tom Stoppard A bed, a telephone, the cord to the world beyond the womb . . .