It Is My Heart That's Late, It

Poetry Today Is Easier To Write But Harder To Remember.

I Dance/for The Joy Of Surviving, At The Edge Of The Road.

I Have Walked Through Many Lives, Some Of Them My Own, And I Am Not Who I Was, Though Some Principle Of Being Abides, From Which I Struggle Not To Stray.

One Critic Wrote . . . That My Poems Sounded As Though They Had Been Translated From The Hungarian. I Don't Know Why, But Somehow That Made Me Feel Quite Lighthearted.

You Must Be Careful Not To Deprive The Poem Of Its Wild Origin.