The Ear Writes My Poems, Not The

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

...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.

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

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.

It Is My Heart That's Late, It Is My Song That's Flown.