This is not the poem, this line
I’m feeding you. And the thought
that this line is not the poem
is not it either. Instead
the thought of what this line is
not is the weight that sinks it
in. And though this image of
that thought as a weight is quite
a neat figure of speech, you
know what it’s not
this time let the line smoothly
arc to this spot, and now lets
it reach down to one other,
one further rhyme
of which almost does measure
up, the way it keeps the line
stirring through the dampening
air. Oh, you know you can hear
the lure in that. As you know
you’ve known from the start the self
referring this line’s doing
was a hook bit of wit that made you look
and see how clear it is no
part of this line or its gear
could be the poem. Still it cast
and kept the line reeling out
till now at last the hook’s on
to itself and about to
tie this line I’m feeing you
up with a knot. Referring
to itself has got the line
and us nowhere. So clever’s
not what the poem is about
either. We’re left hanging there
while something like a snout starts
nudging at your ear, nibbling
near my mouth
it’s the poem about to take
the bait. From the inside ought
to be a great way to learn
what the poem is. And we’ll use
this line when the poem’s drawn it
taut and fine as breath to tell
what we know, where we are and
where we’ll go
breaks. How would it feel, knowing,
at last, what the poem really
is, to lack the line to speak?