If Only A Group Of

There Ought, I Thought, To Be A Ritual For Being Born Twice - Patched, Retreaded And Approved For The Road.

England Offers New Comforts. I Could Write A Novel There.

I Have A Violence In Me That Is Hot As Death-blood.

I Felt Overstuffed And Dull And Disappointed, The Way I Always Do The Day After Christmas, As If Whatever It Was The Pine Boughs And The Candles And The Silver And Gilt-ribboned Presents And The Birch-log Fires And The Christmas Turkey And The Carols At The Piano Promised Never Came To Pass.

I, To You, Am Lost In The Gorgeous Errors Of Flesh.