I iterate

On water there is this to say
uncensor, unscreen unundo there is so much deleting
there is so much deleting I cant
ugh

There is a certain amount of text that comes from your fingers before you have a poem

There is a certain amount of text that must come from your fletched fingertips before they strike out, in tandem, a poem

In the clatter of fletching fingertips, poems
pressed, plucked, pummeled. I cannot write this yet

In the clatter of fletched fingertips. I remake myself streamlined
I remake myself cut from finest wood, smoothed to glass smooth surface, sanded
(sand and lighting make my smooth black glass, coarseness and cutline fire forming
fastened sheets of starred glass shard) Glass
is a metaphor for poetry as it
slowly seeps from seaming sharpness to soft amorphidity
look, now, at your windowpane. In a million million years it will
be a slumped glob of glint and glisten. remember wordsworth
I am unsharpened already.

If each poem packs printlines too dense to untangle from glass glob
if each poem prints packt lines, cluttered into
I break and fall, and
where is the structure to it all?