When conversations lull,
or I’m left alone with myself,
(or unexplained shivers
puppet my shoulders)
I think of writing the perfect poem.
I have so many wonderful ideas
that have all been thought
but were too messy—
and they would all be rethought
until they were polished;
until they were spotless;
until they were blacksmithed
and welded and tallied and measured and remeasured and immaculate.
Then I would have written
a flawless poem.
But then again,
if someone (even me) wrote
the perfect poem,
it would be written.
And that would be that.
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 1:42 PM UTC
When conversations lull,
or I’m left alone with myself,
(or unexplained shivers
puppet my shoulders)
I think of writing the perfect poem.
I have so many wonderful ideas
that have all been thought
but were too messy—
and they would all be rethought
until they were polished;
until they were spotless;
until they were blacksmithed
and welded and tallied and measured and remeasured and immaculate.
Then I would have written
a flawless poem.
But then again,
if someone (even me) wrote
the perfect poem,
it would be written.
And that would be that.
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