She looked terrible, but very wise.
She has foldedThem back into her body as petalsOf a rose close when the garden Stiffens and odours bleedFrom the sweet, deep throats of the night flower. The moon has nothing to be sad about, Staring...
I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps outLooking, with its hooks, for something to love.
What a man is is an arrow into the future, and what a woman is is the place the arrow shoots off from.
I also had a dim idea that if I walked the streets of New York by myself all night something of the city's mystery and magnificence might rub off on me at last. But I gave it up.
How frail the human heart must bea mirrored pool of thought.
I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
I saw the gooseflesh on my skin. I did not know what made it. I was not cold. Had a ghost passed over? No, it was the poetry.
The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
Me sentía muy tranquila y muy vacía, como debe de sentirse el ojo de un tornado que se mueve con ruido sordo en medio del estrépito circundante.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.
My mother's face floated to mind, a pale, reproachful moon, at her last and first visit to the asylum since my twentieth birthday. A daughter in an asylum! I had done that to her. Still, she had obvio...
The night sky is only a sort of carbon paper,Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of starsLetting in the light, peephole after peephole--- A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.
Doreen is dissolving, Lenny Shepherd is dissolving, Frankie is dissolving, New York is dissolving, they are all dissolving away and none of them matter anymore.I don't know them. I have never known th...
My mother had taught shorthand and typing to support us since my father died, and secretly she hated it and hated him for dying and leaving no money because he didn't trust life insurance salesmen.
I think writers are the most narcissistic people. Well, I musn't say this, I like many of them, a great many of my friends are writers.
There was a beautiful time...