daily practice

most poems limp in lumpy—
there may be a line
with a trace of truth
I pare dead words away—
the verse has a life
independent of mine
does it voice its own truth?
what does it want to say?

I repeatedly speak it,
ear for its musical echo
rephrasing a line
prune this and cut that
until it feels pleasing

once in a while
it’s too disheveled
for shaping—I’ll snag
one single phrase
let go of the rest
and start fresh again

the rarest of poems
pours in clear—
I lift my hands
from the keys
no fussing with this one
let it shine its own song