The speaker seems to be taking stock of his life at thirty-three, and the poem opens with a jolt: the capitalized first line reads almost like a shout or a diagnosis. You're already in it, he says, so don't pretend otherwise. The "it" is never named, which makes it feel like life itself, or the weight of adulthood. Against that comes a bright image of dawn as two bulls, one young and one old, walking down a hillside. The urge to "run down and jump" them suggests restless energy and a wish to meet life head-on, even recklessly.
Then the mood shifts. A blues singer's shouted question opens into a list of "where is" lines: the girls, forever love, the snares and delusions, the ability to write a poem. Each one sounds like a loss or a longing. The final "where is jesse where is" simply trails off, as if the speaker can't finish. The poem moves from vigor to ache, leaving a mood of restless nostalgia and unresolved grief.