The Poem, For Me, Is Simply The

Whatever You Have To Say, Leave The Roots On, Let Them Dangle And The Dirt Just To Make Clear Where They Come From.

What Can We Do When Even The Public Conveyances Sing? How Can We Go Anywhere, Even Cross-town How Get Out Of Anywhere

There Is A Grace Of Life Which Is Still Yours, My Dear Europe.

Were All Moving, Moving, Moving. Isnt It Nice?

I Have Had To Learn The Simplest Things Last. Which Made For Difficulties.