Poem, you sonofabitch, it's bad enough
that I embarass myself working so hard
to get it right even a little,
and that little grudging and awkward.
But it's afterwards I resent, when
the sweet sure should hold me like
a trout in the bright summer stream.
There should be at least briefly
access to your glamour and tenderness.
But there's always this same old
from Refusing Heaven
Take a hammer to the amphora of soft Euphrates clay
and it will fracture meticulously there, and there,
and there, the way a sentence yields at the invisible
seams and faults of grammar's fluid syntactic
tectonics. Take a chisel to the mountainside--basalt,
gabbro, porphyry--and, well, what did you expect.
from The New American Poets, edited by Michael Collier