can a poem go when set free
from the end of my graphite scratching
to inchworm in search of other eyes?
Does it hunger freedom,
or am I the master, kicking
it out of bed too soon,
a chrysalis torn from cocoon—
ugly and half-formed,
a useless thrash of words,
a pitiful and hideous attempt?
Can our hopes match father to son
without the comfort
of the Holy Ghost?
What if shyness stops the poem
in two dimensions—height and width,
never allowing depth to dry
its wings of pages and so glide
freely across open eyes.
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