Love, If You Love Me, Lie Next

Still, No One Finally Knows What A Poet Is Supposed Either To Be Or To Do. Especially In This Country, One Takes On The Job—because All That One Does In America Is Considered A "job"—with No Clear Sense As To What Is Required Or Where One Will Ultimately Be Led. In That Respect, It Is As Particular An Instance Of A "calling" As One Might Point To. For Years I've Kept In Mind, "many Are Called But Few Are Chosen." Even So "called," There Were No Assurances That One Would Be Answered.

Form Is Never More Than An Extension Of Content.

Suddenly The Whole Imagination Of Writing And Editorial And Newspaper And All These Presumptions About Who Am I Reading This, And Who Else Other People May Be, And All That, It's So Grimly Brutal!

The Lady Has Always Moved To The Next Town And You Stumble On After Her.

It Is Hard Going To The Door Cut So Small In The Wall Where The Vision Which Echoes Loneliness Brings A Scent Of Wild Flowers In The Wood.