My mother never forgave my father

You must be careful not to deprive the poem of its wild origin.

I dance/for the joy of surviving, at the edge of the road.

A longing for the dance stirs in the buried life.

Memory is each man's poet-in-residence.

We have all been expelled from the Garden, but the ones who suffer most in exile are those who are still permitted to dream of perfection.

Forward my mail to Mars.