Imagine A Painter Crucified By His Subject!

Some Certified Nut Will Try To Tell You It's Poetry, (it's Extraordinary, It Makes A Great Deal Of Sense) But Watch Out Or He'll Start With Some New Notion Or Other.

I Don't Look On Poetry As Closed Works. I Feel They're Going On All The Time In My Head And I Occasionally Snip Off A Length.

And The Way Though Discontinuous, And Intermittent, Sometimes Not Heard Of For Years At A Time, Did, Nonetheless, Move Up, Although, To His Surprise It Was Inside The House, And Always Getting Narrower.

You Stupefied Me. We Waxed, Carnivores, Late And Alight In The Beaded Winter. All Was Ominous, Luminous.

The Summer Demands And Takes Away Too Much. /but Night, The Reserved, The Reticent, Gives More Than It Takes