Oftentimes

Poems arrive in a sketch form in my head

and act like little newly hatched birds with no feathers, half-blind

rolling in the nest..seeking and sensing

even though not fully formed

On arrival

a poetic sketch sometimes makes me run out into the yard

with a big shovel and start digging for something

deep in the dirt —better words—-the right words

maybe something I just sense is there —

but I must get at it while the idea is still breathing

—still sparking within —

though making me breathe a different way,

semi-gasping through the dirt clouds forming

After digging a while

When I look down I see myself

looking up clawing my way out

I meet myself there in the dark, nod,

and see that I have just gone far enough

having hit a vein of gold to buy myself some time

I stay behind to bury the words that perished along the way

Then run away with an armload of possibles

seeking a cave of solitude

where I throw spaghetti against the wall until some sticks