A good meal can somewhat repair / The eatings of slight love
Here no elsewhere underwrites my existence.
Walk with the dead For fear of death.
I never think of poetry or the poetry scene, only separate poems written by individuals.
My age fallen away like white swaddling Floats in the middle distance, becomes An inhabited cloud.
I have started to say "A quarter of a century" Or "thirty years back" About my own life.
Any memory for the most part depending on chance.
Joy Is for the simple or the great to feel, Neither of which we are.
Get stewed:Books are a load of crap.
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