I Dance/for The Joy Of Surviving, At

Forward My Mail To Mars.

How Shall The Heart Be Reconciled / To Its Feast Of Losses?

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

...few Young Poets [are] Testing Their Poems Against The Ear. They're Writing For The Page, And The Page, Let Me Tell You, Is A Cold Bed.

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.