1) In poetry, what is an arch? Explain and draw a model. The villain in Paradise Lost (who was the villain again? I haven’t met anyone who liked GOD). 2) Take Le Corbusier's somewhat forgotten Savoie house as analogy: Can the body of a poem be hollowed out in every direction: from above and below, from within and without, so that a cross section at any point will show inner and outer space penetrating each other inextricably? Think hard, keeping in mind that form in poetry has a long and unconscious history as a category apart, despite sporadic seminal announcements to the contrary. If you want a poem to do that, it would seem that Roussell has already achieved it (though we shall have to wait until the next Chicago Review to see for sure). 3) Is it possible, in a move of boldest conceptual elan, to build a poem over a waterfall? Confirm or deny, then, if the former, say what you would title such a poem. (Remembering that Wright's most famous building is a physically flawed structure, and that the roaring of the water forced the inhabitants to abandon the house.) Indeed, we may call such a poem “abandoned house”. I could drone on and on about droning and drowning and droning. Water drops and Loud Symphony 4) Is the incipient turn of new poetries to architectural/spatial theory symptomatic, in any way, of the generalized crisis of the current poetic avant-garde? Insert a compass as metaphor (or metonym, if you desire) in your answer. O.k. this may be brashly arrogant. It’s a charge I’m not immune to.

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