I have written two other poems tonight,
but can’t seem to be at peace with them.
They say what I think I want to say,
but too bluntly, not hidden between
branches of metaphor and the leaves
of alliteration. Inside the choice of words
and the painting of lines, in the sculpture of
structure the boundary of form, in the music of meter
and the lyric of rhyme lurk the potential for more meaning
than it seems I have the skill to place tonight.
Instead I cheaply turn to confessional and plead
for the patience to carry on. I heard a poet
say, “If I never write another poem, then I can accept that.”
I’m afraid I can’t. Or, put a better way, I’m afraid.