The feeling somewhere like an open door

The feeling somewhere like an open door that there’s something I’m supposed to do, like write a poem. No, that was yesterday. But I didn’t write one yesterday OK, so I’ve been sitting down before this typewriter for four and a half lines now, and somehow what I’ve been thinking is magically represented in 27 symbols Count them. What could be less interesting? The size of these lines? No, not that. 51 is arbitrary, after all. What about three line stanzas? Not that either

October 1972