A thousand poems this weekend I reviewed;
a myriad of metered monographs
have filled my time and sent my attitude
to proud embarrassment, self-conscious laughs,
and growing confidence. Oh, I read those
I should discard, but there are dozens more
I like enough to keep or recompose,
and others that contain a vein of ore.

Now I begin to mine those early tries,
spelunking in the patterns I have dug.
A lamp is beaming from above my eyes,
and I detect a shelter in the hug
of curving walls, the balm of moving air,
while my canary’s singing everywhere.