When I begin to roll my verse
out with iambic arms and feet
you may feel that it crawls much worse
than modern stuff, though I still think it’s neat
to have a steady way to move
(one step, next step, next step, one at a time).
I will admit I let the groove
and it’s compatriot, the rhyme,
control the ways these poems go.
At least this drudgery’s more fun
to follow in its throbbing throes
than some dis-join-tedly-re-run
complaint about the current state
of my poor mind’s puerile debate.
June 11
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