Of many ways to make a poem, let
Me tell you one: First, you ignore the phones
(A habit you acquire when you’re in debt);
And second, you write letters to your foes
And tell them how their hatred helped you grow
Much bigger; third, you wiggle all your toes
Behind a light and watch the silhouettes
On walls which run with beads of jogger sweat.
You are not done. You have to rip your heart
From your chest and gaze through a microscope
To know for whom it beats, and why, and where.
For forty days behold great works of art.
Then take a pen or pencil hooked to hope
And faith and love, and write about your cares.