The loveliest thing about writing
is you can’t tell where it’s going.
Even if you have your last line
firmly in mind, you can’t control
what the words get up to
along the way. Something always comes to mind between one word and the next, and after
every word a gap like a river–
who knows what they speak
over there, with that weird
flag flapping on a mound
you have no binoculars to help.

No, you have to cross the gap
all by yourself, bark out a word
and hold till it ferries you over
and dumps you in silence
halfway there so you have to
Flounder out and come ashore,
the mighty river was a trickle,
that flag a flutter in magnolia.

You’ve found the new word now
and weary though you may be
it will carry you to the next,
the next, the next. That’s all
I know about getting there.

10 April 2023