Live In The Layers, Not

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

The Supreme Morality Of Art Is To Endure.

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

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.

I Dropped My Hoe And Ran Into The House And Started To Write This Poem, 'end Of Summer.’ It Began As A Celebration Of Wild Geese. Eventually The Geese Flew Out Of The Poem, But I Like To Think They Left Behind The Sound Of Their Beating Wings.