I Can Only Sign Over Everything, The

And Within The House Ashes Are Being Stuffed Into My Marriage, Fury Is Lapping The Walls, Dishes Crack On The Shelves, A Strangler Needs My Throat, The Daughter Has Ceased To Eat Anything.

I Am A Collection Of Dismantled Almosts.

Oh, Darling, Let Your Body In, Let It Tie You In, In Comfort.

I Like You; Your Eyes Are Full Of Language." [letter To Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]

Talk To Me About Sadness. I Talk About It Too Much In My Own Head But I Never Mind Others Talking About It Either; I Occasionally Feel Like I Tremendously Need Others To Talk About It As Well.