No, how could I believe in my poetry
If even David Plante disbelieves in his?
But I, too, can ask why I want to write,
Expecting no success but enjoying
A cool pool of words in which to slide down,
Noises fading in the muffling depths, or
Like rinsing mud from the side of a bucket,
Leaving a hot pan to soak until the stain
Softens, or trailing fingers through water
To mark it momentarily with my mind.
It is not what happens but how it feels
To choose to cool a hot thought slowly down,
To shape a portion of fluid into form.

See also: signal (2015); a poem should (2013)