Pain under my right shoulder

        Perhaps it is a poem,
        trying to be born
        or only words,
        a simile,
        a metaphor,
        struggling.

        If you read
        my poem
        about being 
        in the Sinks,
        in darkness,
        discovering
        that Old Seventy,
        in it flow,
        is poetry.
—–
         If you were there,
          with me,
          come outside now,
          into the light
          and see life,
          smell life,     
          touch it,
          hear its singing,
          and feel its pain,
          do not doubt it is
          a poem unborn.
—–
          Fescue has endured
           rain until it is 
           overripe.
           Yesterday
           and today the sun,
           begged to be the poem
            of hay.