The Bogholes Might Be Atlantic Seepage. The

The Way We Are Living, Timorous Or Bold, Will Have Been Our Life.

Poetry Cannot Afford To Lose Its Fundamentally Self-delighting Inventiveness, Its Joy In Being A Process Of Language As Well As A Representation Of Things In The World.

As Writers And Readers, As Sinners And Citizens, Our Realism And Our Aesthetic Sense Make Us Wary Of Crediting The Positive Note.

Yet There Are Times When A Deeper Need Enters, When We Want The Poem To Be Not Only Pleasurably Right But Compellingly Wise, Not Only A Surprising Variation Played Upon The World, But A Re-tuning Of The World Itself.

The Main Thing Is To Write For The Joy Of It. Cultivate A Work-lust That Imagines Its Haven Like Your Hands At Night Dreaming The Sun In The Sunspot Of A Breast. You Are Fasted Now, Light-headed, Dangerous. Take Off From Here.