In the Pines de Alice Notley
There are tricks to writing novels, of no interest because the story loves whatever people do. I hate whatever people do.
I am a real rat, unclear to myself, because there’s no earth and no story. Unless I am a lab rat, experimented upon by people like men, so that I can do their will.
Within the rat I am light which is bleak but the cast is disappearing so I can cease to become.
There are also tricks to writing poems, of no interest because poets tinker. On the cutting edge. Which isn’t important unless it’s the cooling board.