I Think The Pleasure Of Form Is

I Try To Presume That No One Is Interested In Me. And I Think Experience Bears That Out. No One's Interested In The Experiences Of A Stranger - Let's Put It That Way. And Then You Have Difficulty Combined With Presumptuousness, Which Is The Most Dire Trouble With Poetry.

More Often Than Not In Poetry I Find Difficulty To Be Gratuitous And Show-offy And Camouflaging, Experimental To A Kind Of Insane Degree - A Difficulty Which Really Ignores The Possibility Of Having A Sensible Reader.

But My Heart Is Always Propped Up In A Field On Its Tripod, Ready For The Next Arrow.

It's Time To Float On The Waters Of The Night. Time To Wrap My Arms Around This Book And Press It To My Chest, Life Preserver In A Seat Of Unremarkable Men And Women Anonymous Faces On The Street, A Hundred Thousand Unalphabitized Things A Million Forgotten Hours.

A Sentence Starts Out Like A Lone Traveler Heading Into A Blizzard At Midnight, Tilting Into The Wind, One Arm Shielding His Face, The Tails Of His Thin Coat Flapping Behind Him.