“I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.”

“I am terrified by this dark thingThat sleeps in me;All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.Clouds pass and disperse.Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?Is it for such I agitate my heart?I am incapable of more knowledge.What is this, this faceSo murderous in its strangle of branches? -Its snaky acids kiss.It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faultsThat kill, that kill, that kill.From the poem "Elm", 19 April 1962”

“In a rabbit-fear I may hurl myself under the wheels of the car because the lights terrify me, and under the dark blind death of wheels I will be safe. I am very tired, very banal, very confused. I do not know who I am tonight. I wanted to walk until I dropped and not complete the inevitable circle of coming home.”

“I wonder why I don't go to bed and go to sleep. But then it would be tomorrow, so I decide that no matter how tired, no matter how incoherent I am, I can skip on hour more of sleep and live.”

“ELMI know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear.I do not fear it: I have been there.Is it the sea you hear in me, Its dissatisfactions?Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?Love is a shadow.How you lie and cry after itListen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously,Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf, Echoing, echoing.Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons? This is rain now, this big hush.And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets. Scorched to the rootMy red filaments burn and stand, a hand of wires.Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs. A wind of such violenceWill tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me Cruelly, being barren.Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.I let her go. I let her goDiminished and flat, as after radical surgery. How your bad dreams possess and endow me.I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps outLooking, with its hooks, for something to love.I am terrified by this dark thing That sleeps in me;All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.Clouds pass and disperse.Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart?I am incapable of more knowledge. What is this, this faceSo murderous in its strangle of branches?——Its snaky acids hiss.It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults That kill, that kill, that kill.--written 19 April 1962”

“I want to love somebody because I want to be loved. In a rabbit-fear I may hurl myself under the wheels of the car because the lights terrify me, and under the dark blind death of the wheels I will be safe. I am very tired, very banal, very confused. I do not know who I am tonight. I wanted to walk until I dropped and not complete the inevitable circle of coming home. I have lived in boxes above, below, and down the hall from girls who think hard, feel similarly, and long companionably, and I have not bothered to cultivate them because I did not want to, could not, sacrifice the time. People know who I am, and the harder I try to know who they are, the more I forget their names - I want to be alone, and yet there are times when the liquid eye and the cognizant grin of a small monkey would send me into a crying fit of brotherly love. I work and think alone. I live with people, and act. I love and cherish both. If I knew now what I wanted I would know when I saw it, who he was.”

“MirrorI am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.Whatever I see I swallow immediatelyJust as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.I am not cruel, only truthful-The eye of the little god, four cornered.Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall. It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so longI think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.Faces and darkness separate us over and over.Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,Searching my reaches for what she really is.Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.I am important to her. She comes and goes.Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old womanRises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.--written 1960”