So I perversely circle the late stars, drowsier and drowsier, sleepily longing for something.
Waiting for the right wonderful person is so much more important than getting the outer comforts of marriage at an early age.
At first I wondered why the room felt so safe. Then I realized it was because there were no windows.
He had what no American man I’ve ever met has had, and that’s intuition.
The silence surged back, smoothing itself as black water smooths to its old surface calm over a dropped stone.
And to wait, taut, smiling, till evening, and the time after eight o’clock, again, to the time you go to bed, which is yours, which is brief and private.
Saturday morning, and I am at the old game of catching time between my fingers as it is running, forever running, away.
The nurse jabbed the needle in, and I winced, savoring the tiny hurt.
I want to be where no possessions remind me of the past and by the sea, which is for me the great healer.
I just sat there with the whole summer turning sour in my mouth.
A summer calm laid its soothing hand over everything, like death.
This man was wearing an immaculate white suit, a pale blue shirt and a yellow satin tie with a bright stickpin. I couldn’t take my eyes off that stickpin.
No hay nada como vomitar con alguien para llegar a ser amigos.
His face, with its exaggerated shadows and planes of light, looked alien and pained, like a refugee’s.
O, only left to myself, what a poet I will flay myself into.
Try to get into a story. Forget self and give blood to creation.
I’m stupid about executions.
And he walked off down the path with his jaunty, independent stride. And I stood there where he left me, tremulous with love and longing, weeping in the dark. That night it was hard to get to sleep.
God, but life is loneliness, despite all the opiates, despite the shrill tinsel gaiety of “parties” with no purpose, despite the false grinning faces we all wear.
La furia blocca l’esofago e sparge veleno, ma appena mi metto a scrivere svanisce, scorre via sotto forma di caratteri: scrittura come terapia?