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