I do not laugh; I do not cry; I'm sweating out the will to die. My past is sliding down the drain; I soon will be myself again. - Theodore Roethke

Is pain a promise? I was schooled in pain,
And found out what I could of all desire;
I weep for what I'm like when I'm alone
In the deep center of the voice and fire. I know the motion of the deepest stone.
Each one's himself, yet each one's everyone.

"ROOT CELLAR"

Nothing would sleep in that cellar, dank as a ditch,
Bulbs broke out of boxes hunting for chinks in the dark,
Shoots dangled and drooped,
Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates,
Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakes.
And what a congress of stinks! — Roots ripe as old bait,
Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich,
Leaf-mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks.
Nothing would give up life:
Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.

I lived with deep roots once:
Have I forgotten their ways —
The gradual embrace
Of lichen around stones?