I don’t like, you said, your reading my poem without asking me. I left. You can’t be righteous; you can’t expect shadows to fall upon me, which you can’t see anyway; you can’t expect light to move to your incoherence, and be my friend. I won’t move to your expectations. I don’t like that, you said, you’re not excited; you’re not open. You’re dead, you said. I don’t believe you, and you must make allowances. How can you write like that, when your poem is kind?
October 1971