When I decide to write a poem, I start
to sweep inside myself, begin to sing
iambically, and peer into my heart.
The circle in the square’s a lovely thing
that leaves four pointed corners where abide
my dusty passions, stubborn feelings, views
on disappointment. There unfair reside
my biases, the bitterness, a muse.

A circle as a cover cannot fall.
It constitutes an elegant design
above abysmal pools or pits of gall.
I sense inside that perfect shape is mine
and stretch to find its full dimension, where
the verses spin their patterns in the air.