He Thinks Of That Ocean House And

I'm Reading A Manuscript By Rodney Jones, "village Prodigies",it's One Of The Best Contemporary Poetry Books I've Ever Read Ever.

My Wife's Dying Upstairs And I Can't Do Anything About It. I Look In Her Face And I See The Memories There. I See How I Hurt Her And How I Said The Wrong Things And How I Got Angry And How I Wasn't The Man She Hoped I'd Be. I See That In Her Face And I See She's Going To Die With That. You Think I'm Not Preoccupied?

These People You Used To See Every Day, Friends Or Acquaintances, After A While They Become As Distant As Any Stranger, People You Suddenly Recall Late At Night--you Remember Something They Said Or Something Silly That Someone Once Did. For A Few Moments They Completely Occupy Your Mind; Then You Forget Them Again.

Love Doesn't Need A Reason. Hate Needs A Reason.

I Remember Coming Upon Philip Larkin In My 20s In The Early '60s And When Sylvia Plath's "ariel" Came Out It Knocked Me Off My Feet.