Poetry Is The Enemy Of The Poem.

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

The Heart Breaks And Breaks And Lives By Breaking It Is Necessary To Go Through Dark And Deeper Dark And Not To Turn

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.

The Universe Is A Continuous Web. Touch It At Any Point And The Whole Web Quivers.

Darling, Do You Remember The Man You Married? Touch Me, Remind Me Who I Am.