“Dziewicza strona, biała. Pierwsza skalana i odrzucona. Wszystkie te marzenia, obietnice: czekanie, aż będę mogła znowu pisać, a potem bolesny, sfuszerowany gwałt na pierwszej kartce.”

“The still watersWrap my lips,Eyes, nose and ears,A clearCellophane I cannot crack.”

“Stasis in darkness.Then the substanceless blue”

“My flesh winced, in cowardice, from such a death.”

“I dreamed that you bewitched me into bedAnd sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.(I think I made you up inside my head.)”

“The eyes and faces all turned themselves towards me, and guiding myself by them, as by a magical thread, I stepped into the room.”

“The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,White as a knuckle and terribly upset.It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quietWith the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.”

“Not easy to state the change you made.If I’m alive now, I was dead,Though, like a stone, unbothered by it.”

“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.”

“Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it”

“But writing poems and letters doesn’t seem to do much good.”

“I don’t see,’ I said, ‘how people stand being old. Your insides all dry up. When you’re young you’re so self-reliant. You don’t even need much religion.”

“I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps outLooking, with its hooks, for something to love.”

“I didn’t want any flowers, I only wantedTo lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.How free it is, you have no idea how free——The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.”

“Writing, then, was a substitute for myself: if you don’t love me, love my writing & love me for my writing. It is also much more: a way of ordering and reordering the chaos of experience.”