It is like cooking, really it is.
You're wanting a meal,
you open the door to the larder
to see what is lying in wait.
If it's just eggs and bacon,
that kind of settles what you'll do.
You'll write a poem?
Somewhere in the memory
you have a store
of issues to explore and thoughts:
from these you choose the stuff to make your pie.
Talk of cooking brings to mind
how even banquets can be ruined
by cooking too fast or slow.
Some poems need to simmer for a year or so,
and some are better slapped down in a flash.
The trick, of course, is knowing which are which.
One day you may be making beans on toast
when out of that small can pops something like:
The big bang...
did not happen somewhere someplace, way out there,
but absolutely everywhere at once.
How could you go on cooking beans on toast?
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
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