It was so hard for me to write this line,
to get the words to fit within the beat.
It must have been so hard for this poet
To scrawl this soundless solitary stock.
I do not have the imagination
to get past the fifth line of a sonnet.
And yet here we are moving on to eight.
How long can this go on without a draft?
Could a rhyme occur without any craft?
I can already hear the final line!
It strikes the reader as carefully spare,
As the indefinite end to a prayer.
Here I go, the completion of the square:
Have I seen myself writing this somewhere?
