I write until trying fails, each attempt begins to blur,
these un-built words come tumbling down.
My intuition has made another curse
as letters then return like rotted wood to ground.
Those fundamental moods of measure, absent in a cloud
always insist upon that old, iambic curse;
that cheap disagreement of all intemperate crowds.
Standing out from language, subtle suicide in verse.
I’ll make words like climbing fire, or as butterflies ascend.
Only in dead calm, I feel this truth within in my bones,
such writ should penetrate the essence, defend
life’s redacted thoughts that only I have known.
I alone correct the flaw with no ciphered meaning shown.
Instead, imbalance balanced, as if all of thought were May,
in one image or a word, of all these infinite knowns—
language is the only image of my muse’s rousing way.