Excerpt from a letter to a friend:
________, I just woke up. Of the afternoon variety. Perhaps a nameless God. Window to window dark. Desk lamp on. Last night, I don't know why, but my body would not own sleep. Baby-skull-smile. To bring me back to my senses I opened Robert Lowell and read the first line I came to: What we love we are. Baby-skull is the last line of this same stanza. A man is struggling. What we love we are. What else we know we have been told, one Emily Dickinson may clarify: "that the heart wants what it wants"
is a fact immoveable.
To deduce: what we are cannot be moved? No. Only we move, bodily, brainily, and then may the heart find its own way and time, and sock back down, into its heated cove.
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