I think that I could write formal poemsexclusively, or at least inclusivewith all the other stuff I writeI guess. Of course, I’ve already writtena few, this one included, though “formal”is maybe a stretch. Is blank verse a form?What is form anyway? I picture oldwomen counting stitches on their knitting,keeping iambs next to iambs in linesas straight and sure as arrows. But my sockis lumpy, poorly made: it’s beginningto unravel. Stresses don’t line up. Syl-lables forced to fit like McNugget molds.That cliché on the arrow? I’m aware.My prepositions too—God, where’s it stop?The answer: never. I will never stopwriting poems, or hating what I write.