I'm Seventy-one Now, So It's Hard To

I Find You In These Tears, Few, Useless And Here At Last. Don't Come Back.

The Irony Is, Going To Work Every Day Became The Subject Of Probably My Best Poetry.

Now I Must Wait And Be Still And Say Nothing I Don't Know, Nothing I Haven't Lived Over And Over, And That's Everything.

No One Can Write Like Vallejo And Not Sound Like A Fraud. He's Just Too Much Himself And Not You.

I'm Afraid We Live At The Mercy Of A Power, Maybe A God, Without Mercy. And Yet We Find It, As I Have, From Others.