How much better it seems now
than when it is finally done-
the unforgettable first line,
the cunning way the stanzas run.
The rhymes soft-spoken and suggestive
are barely audible at first,
an appetite not yet acknowledged
like the inkling of a thirst
While gradually the form appears
as each line is coaxed aloud-
the architecture of a room
seen from the middle of a crowd.
The music that of common speech
but slanted so that each detail
sounds unexpected as a sharp
inserted in a simple scale.
No jumble box of imagery
dumped glumly in the reader’s lap
or elegantly packaged junk
the unsuspecting must unwrap,
But words that could direct a friend
precisely to an unknown place,
those few unshakeable details
no confusion can erase.
And the real subject left unspoken
but unmistakable to those
who don’t expect a jungle parrot
in the black and white of prose.
How much better it seems now
before a single word is spoken-
the spark of dawn above a mountain,
the morning’s promise not yet broken.
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