And if the mortally wounded warrior revives, and if
      his after-dinner pipe leads the drowsy sinner
to cast a long loving look at the cello in the corner

The question is not how like the animals we are
But how we got that way. We laugh, for what is a suicide note

But the epitaph of an emotion? Few of us die out in the open;

In retrospect it was romantic to be the lonely American recovering from 
        pneumonia, living in a hotel room with a typewriter
        and a sink in a Left Bank hotel in a gray Paris winter.

But on the screen where your real life is happening
It is always 1938, you are always dancing

The boy had a group of freckle-faced friends
Who lived nearby. He gave them names, taught them games.
They loved him. He had a sweet nature, sang show tunes

Do you have a favorite time of day? Favorite weather?
Tell me about your writing process.
Is that so? I would never have guessed.

I’m still here (Ithaca)
the students are back

In Iowa, Jim dreamed that Della Street was Anne Sexton’s
twin. Dave drew a comic strip called the “Adventures of Whitman,”
about a bearded beer-guzzler in Superman uniform. Donna dressed like Wallace Stevens

The happiest moment in a woman’s life
Is when she hears the rum of her lover’s key
In the lock, and pretends to be asleep

No gentle way of breaking the news: you turn on the TV
And see the rocket’s red glare: the capsule explodes,
The astronauts tumble down, and the anchorpeople