Testo 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