“Awkward”, I’d say—but I only know form
in its furthest swoon of innocence—and I’m
only too easy with attic-head thought that prevails
alongside Attic form. I see, far colors crutched
and propped at each other—the slightest step near,
and the whole lapses smash into half-strung
jangle. These, to me, are botches—picture-panes
inflicted with accident untoward—
as fierce runoff bears mineral dyes.
-2003
