(no subject)

a poem

It seems to me I often start

Inchoate

Reaching for words, for meaning

To embody seed, shoot, branch, bud

Of something stronger than words

Deeper than I can shape

But reaching still

Stretching into shape, curve, rhythm

It’s

A helluva a way to write

Translating the thing inside

So whole in itself

Into what makes story

On the page

Alive in others

Clean outlines, by the numbers, have never

Worked for me

I guess inchoate, reaching

Is where I have to be