Deadline

Spider, hourglass on a thin thread
descending down onto the baby’s bed;
black cat, sneaky shadow of Death,
prowling the house to seek a baby’s breath;
raven, stained with ink, beak a nib,
perching upon the sleeping baby’s crib;
nanny, dark frock and darker eyes,
slipping into the nursery likewise;
story, laid out upon the sheet,
innocent, helpless, not as yet complete.

Good Form

Writing a novel is a
floor routine—
long, varied, full of techniques
that can be indulgent,
rambling,
so much time on your hands
(literally while typing)
allotted to dance some improv
into the longform method,
whereas a
poem
is a matter of vaulting
by running headlong at the idea,
flipping upon the instant
and
rolling with the momentum of
emotion
into the air, twirling without hesitating,
and either sticking the landing
or
breaking your pride.