An American is a complex of occasions, themselves a geometry of spatial nature.
There are no hierarchies, no infinite, no such many as mass, there are only/ eyes in all heads,/ to be looked out of.
We all want what's been suddenly disallowed.
I defer to all these other American poets who, for some reason, I both envy and admire.
Were all moving, moving, moving. Isnt it nice?
You don't help people in your poems. I've been trying to help people all my life - that's my trouble