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 <p><span class="line">I think that I could write formal poems</span><span class="line">exclusively, or at least inclusive</span><span class="line">with all the other stuff I write</span><span class="line">I guess. Of course, I’ve already written</span><span class="line">a few, this one included, though “formal”</span><span class="line">is maybe a stretch. Is blank verse a form?</span><span class="line">What is form anyway? I picture old</span><span class="line">women counting <a href="roughgloves.html">stitches on their knitting</a>,</span><span class="line">keeping iambs next to iambs in lines</span><span class="line">as straight and sure as arrows. But my sock</span><span class="line">is lumpy, poorly made: it’s beginning</span><span class="line">to unravel. Stresses don’t line up. Syl-</span><span class="line">lables forced to fit like <a href="ronaldmcdonald.html">McNugget</a> molds.</span><span class="line">That cliché on the arrow? I’m aware.</span><span class="line">My prepositions too—God, where’s it stop?</span><span class="line">The answer: never. I will never stop</span><span class="line">writing poems, or hating what I write.</span></p>
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