The poem engages you or it doesn’t;
it reaches out and touches you or stays
in the corner and keeps to itself while you
make your way from another to another;
it bothers you, leading you to question,
pause, or trouble over, or it leaves you
alone; it works through you, on you, with you,
or, quite simply, it doesn’t. How can that
be faked anymore than a song or paint
on a canvas, gobs of it, lighting up nothing
so much as the sleepy hollow of your skull?
So a line isn’t always as true as it is
at the moment of composition. The poem
is sketched out on paper, carved out in time.
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