I Do Not Usually Revise Much, Though

Looking At The Sky Last Night And The Moon In The First Fresh Dark, Just A Few Stars, Bright With Their Cold Flares, I Had A Little Crumpled Thought, 'oh Well, The Moon. It's Just Another Place Like California.' One's Imagination Drags Its Feet As We Are Inexorably Hauled Into The Future.

One Tends To Write Beyond What's Needed

The Aim Of The Poet, Or Other Artist, Is First To Make Something; And It's Impossible To Make Something Out Of Words And Not Communicate

A Nothing Day Full Of Wild Beauty .... Little Fish Stream By, A River In Water.

It Seems To Me That Readers Sometimes Make The Genesis Of A Poem More Mysterious Than It Is (by That I Perhaps Mean, Think Of It As Something Outside Their Own Experience)