But Writing Poems And Letters Doesn't Seem

I Lean To You, Numb As A Fossil. Tell Me I'm Here.

I Get Into A Rut, Unable To Yank My Mind Out Of It.

And I, Stepping From This Skin Of Old Bandages, Boredoms, Old Faces Step To You From The Black Car Of Lethe, Pure As A Baby.

A Ring Of Gold With The Sun In It? Lies. Lies And A Grief.

I Find That In A Novel I Can Get More Of Life, Perhaps Not Such Intense Life, But Certainly More Of Life Than In Poetry.