This is Mr. Goldman's second volume of poetry (First Poems 1965) and an interesting group it is. Not surprisingly the poet is fascinated by edges, abrupt departures and advents: ""I am divided/among many images./Everything is alive but a little on edge."" Mr. Goldman tumbles his sharp and splintery appreciations in consort with amusing cerebral flagellations (""there's an author just inside me/and he wants to use the phone."") or moods when ""a dark gentle poem is in me."" Some poems are stylistically extravagant with prosy paragraphs; others are simple, serene, punctuated by a concluding brush-stroke image. A poet of ranging and fanciful extremes, Mr. Goldman balances skillfully along the edge of some awesome-to-capricious insights.