"You're into it already" is shouted at us in capital letters, as if someone had grabbed the speaker by the collar. Into what? The poem never says, and that vagueness is the point. "Thirtythree years deep" reads like a life, or a stretch of one, though that is an inference, since the text gives only the number. "Deep" suggests water or a hole, somewhere easier to enter than to leave. The central idea is that nobody gets to stand outside their own life and decide whether to begin. You are already in, and what remains is to count what has gone missing and to wonder whether you can still do the one thing you care about, which here is write a poem.
Then the bulls arrive. Dawn "comes up like two bulls one / young one old walking down / the hillside," a strange and handsome picture of light moving slowly and heavily. The next lines echo a familiar joke in which the young bull wants to run down the hill and mount a cow, and the old bull suggests they walk down and take them all. The poem keeps both speeds: "let's run / down and jump a couple, let's / walk down and jump them all." The speaker seems to be both animals, the eager one and the seasoned one, and the joke's lesson that experience beats haste comes with a price. Walking is the pace of someone already years deep.
The voice then flattens into talk: "you're into it already don't / try to deny it it don't / make a differnce some blues / singer shouted." The opening line returns in lowercase, tamed. The grammar ("it don't") and the spelling "differnce," as printed, keep it sounding spoken. The repetition also suggests a reading of the title. The opening line looks like a title in its capitals, and then it literally repeats. Blues lyrics work this way, saying the same hard thing twice so it sinks in. By crediting the line to "some blues singer," the speaker admits that this wisdom isn't his own invention. It is what the blues have always said.
After that comes a different music. The first stanza is one tumbling, lightly punctuated run, and the second slows into stacked questions with no punctuation at all. The old tradition of asking where lost things have gone sits behind "where are the girls / where is forever love." The girls are what the bulls were heading toward, and forever love is the grand idea behind that appetite. The next line surprises: "where is every snare and delusion." He misses even the traps and illusions, because they at least gave him something to believe in. The phrase twists the common saying "a snare and a delusion," and it is the bitterest joke in the poem.
Then the question turns inward: "where is how to write a poem again." The grammar is awkward in a revealing way, since what he has lost is a method, not a poem. There is also a quiet paradox, because the poem asking the question is itself a poem. Either he still has the skill or he is performing its absence, and the poem doesn't settle which.
The ending is "where is jesse where is." The poem gives no explanation for the name, and I won't guess at one. What matters is its grammar. A person is lined up with love and girls and the craft of poetry as something gone, and the last "where is" is left hanging with nothing to attach to. The lack of a question mark and the unfinished phrase make the line trail off, and the speaker seems to run out of breath or nerve.
There is no rhyme. The music comes from repetition ("you're into it already," "let's," "where is") and from line breaks that fall on small words: "the / dawn," "don't / try," "some blues / singer." These breaks make each line feel like a breath, not a unit of sense.
The poem is significant because it refuses to console. It mixes a joke, a blues refrain and an elegy, and it sounds casual while being exact about how time works. Being "into it" is both a comfort and a trap, and the poem ends on that tension, asking its question into the silence.