The poem, for me, is simply the first sound realized in the modality of being.
We all want what's been suddenly disallowed.
Fact is based upon vulgar matter.
I take space to be the central fact to man born in America. I spell it large because it comes large here. Large and without mercy.
I defer to all these other American poets who, for some reason, I both envy and admire.
This morning of the small snow I count the blessings, the leak in the faucet which makes of the sink time, the drop of the water on water.