I have recently decided that the key to my survival really does lie in poetry. Reading, not writing. Today on the steps in the sun reading Frank O’Hara and reveling in his joyfulness I thought this, this, this is it! and I forgot to be afraid.

But tonight I started crying as I sat outside in the dark reading Laura (Riding) Jackson and I couldn’t tell — was it because of the poetry, or not having talked to my grandmother in a month, or the fat possum snuffling across the courtyard, or my aloneness?

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~ by Not Alice on March 30, 2007.

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