POEM OF SORTS

POEM OF SORTS

I was writing a poem
erasing words, scratching
through lines
as I wrote

couldn’t be sure
whether this were
a poem of
love
or hate

a poem of rebirth, renewal,
or death and extinction.

The more I erased
cut to shreds, slashed
through the page

the more intensely they came
image after image;
allusion after allusion

and so
the envelope I mailed you
was empty of
contents

you can imagine the
madness of
inspiration
unending labour,
pain of
creation

that produced this masterpiece
through version
upon version

delivered as it was in its final, unquestionable most perfect of states.