Revision Is Not Going Back

Poetry Finds Its Perilous Equilibrium Somewhere Between Music And Speech.

In The Country Of Pain We Are Each Alone.

Nobody Stays Special When They're Old, Anna. That's What We Have To Learn.

Wrinkles Here And There Seem Unimportant Compared To The Gestalt Of The Whole Person I Have Become In This Past Year.

[in Old Age] There Is A Childlike Innocence, Often, That Has Nothing To Do With The Childishness Of Senility. The Moments Become Precious . . .