Writing a poem – that’s hard work.
The dactyl is tricky, hard the iamb.
The line has its rhythms and quirks,

The stanza demands its pound. I am
Seated quiet at my desk. The line does test
The mind. The line in turn reveals its jam

Of vociferous enjambment and at best
The line passes through to the next
And gives the craft no rest.

Reading a poem – it’s not text.
An atom of thought that’s distilled,
Willed into being and the reader, vexed,

Completes the line, the thought, and thrilled
Reading appears to be unwilled,
A joint poetic act fulfilled.