This is my nearly morning exercise:
not poetry, but verse, written one-hand-
ed on the bog. Pound said that everyone
from seventeen to twenty-three tries
to write poetry. No: has to. A gland
perhaps, or similar. Only the mun-
dane care of tools keeps real writers at it
when the red gush of inspiration’s gone.
Trying not to gush, I push my pencil
through broken metre, infinitely split
meanings; keep it sharp for when the one
surge of truth demands strong words to cancel
all those mediocre pages. This wasn’t it.
I’ve sat here once again, producing shit.