I edit my way into the poem,
sidling between lines, crab-wise,
snip here, smooth there, drag that
around the line break.

I’ve a large claw to fend off
unwelcome suggestions
and muscle reluctant stanzas
into place, and a small
claw to manage the finer
points of revision.

But alas! the full moon
pulls the spring tide high
up the foreshore and wipes
it smooth of my skittering.