September Twenty-second, Sir, The Bough Cracks With

But Sometimes Everything I Write With The Threadbare Art Of My Eye Seems A Snapshot

I Myself Am Hell; Nobody's Here

I Want To Apologize For Plaguing You With So Many Telephone Calls Last November And December. When The 'enthusiasm' Is Coming On Me It Is Accompanied By A Feverish Reaching Out To My Friends. After Its Over I Wince And Wither.

Most Poetry Is Very Formal, But When A Modern Poet Is Formal He Gets More Attention For It Than Old Poets Did.

Once Fishing Was A Rabbit's Foot-- O Wind Blow Cold, O Wind Blow Hot