I want to wed a word to word, to mount
a phrase that I can nurture to a line,
and build from that a quatrain of account,
and pen it to display a thought of mine.

And then I’ll set upon another set –
another four that march with feet of five –
(as if by not attempting I’d forget,
or by omitting I’ll be less alive).

I place my hand against this paper book,
positioning my pen for ink to flow.
I scatter words as seeds, reel back and look;
most mornings a conceit begins to grow.
But that’s a trick that doesn’t work today,
for I’m obscure and blinkered by dismay.