of our minds; some songs torment.
But a poet struggles against the comfort
of a routine, like a closed garment
that fits us well and yet lets us move
in one direction, one predictable path.
Like words that rhyme, like love
or gestures of love over-choreographed.
Yet in verses freed from stiff cliches,
in lines that lead to never-beens,
a poet's work still betrays
(like a wave returns) his favored themes.
We are all bound by rules said or unsaid
even poets who think rhyme is dead.
note: I am amazed that I have written this. Maybe tomorrow it will horrify me, but today I love it. :P