Writing Poems

It's like the air from the wing of a bee that flew past right next to my eye: a poem only barely says the thing halfway I wake up early but the sunrise stays outside Interior walls stretching in reflected light I write ideas down in pencil I barely press the page For everyone bone in the museum a million more have blown away That's all I keep trying to say, that the sun, burning there, burns away in finite space but a poem only barely says the thing halfway Making poems is dripping not straining toward some masterpiece a day is followed by another day There's a procession of new sounds always passing through: metal garbage truck shear hammers upstairs dove coo If masterpiece arises made of all this that the sky includes a poem only barely says the thing halfway