It's like the air from the wing of a bee that few past right next to my eye
A poem only barely says the thing halfway

I wake up early but the sunrise stays outside
Interior walls stretching in reflected light

I write ideas down in pencil, I barely press the page
For every bone in the museum a million more have blown away

That's all I keep trying to say
That the sun, burning there
Will burn away
In finite space
But a poem only barely says the thing halfway

Making poems is dripping
Not straining toward some masterpiece

A day is followed by another day
There's a procession of new sounds always passing through
Metal garbage truck shear
Hammers upstairs
Dove coo

If masterpiece arises made of all this that the sky includes
A poem only barely says the thing halfway