Form Is Never More Than An Extension

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.

Love, If You Love Me, Lie Next To Me. Be For Me, Like Rain, The Getting Out Of The Tiredness, The Fatuousness, The Semi- Lust Of Intentional Indifference. Be Wet With A Decent Happiness.

What Has Happened Makes The World. Live On The Edge, Looking.

I Did However Used To Think, You Know, In The Woods Walking, And As A Kid Playing In The Woods, That There Was A Kind Of Immanence There — That Woods, And Places Of That Order, Had A Sense, A Kind Of Presence, That You Could Feel; That There Was Something Peculiarly, Physically Present, A Feeling Of Place Almost Conscious ... Like God. It Evoked That.

Form Is Never More Than An Extension Of Content.