Another poet, reading Sandburg,
claimed the challenge of a poem
is a sense of sound and structure.
Blank verse not verse at all,
but wolfish prose in sheepish clothing -
tennis played without a net.

To me, a net's a barrier;
a woven cage of twine and rope
spread to catch me taking risks. It
keeps me safe, keeps me angry,
feeds to full my fear of falling
graceless, from taut wires of passion.

I come to love the fear and anger.
Days of process, days of progress
unwind cords of prior *******.
Rule by rule, step by step there
comes a danger, comes a freedom -
writing poems without a net.

Riley wants to build a robot.
With all the eagerness of
a five year old
who has been told
that she is brilliant, and beautiful, and kind,
she presents me with her shopping list:

METAL
CLEAN WHEELS
ROBOT FOOD

She tells me that the wheels need to be clean
so they don't mess up Mama's floor.
Of course, I say,
and kiss the top of
her brilliant, and beautiful, and kind head,
reflecting for a moment, with my eyes closed
and Riley chattering happily,
on why a child's hopefulness
always makes me
just a little sad.