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