Like a stutterer who only when he sings
Can be articulate and smooth in speech,
My mind while writing verse more easily strings
New thoughts together, binding each to each.
To write free verse, bereft of beat and rhyme,
Not knowing where to turn a line or stop,
Is random data with no paradigm,
A field unfurrowed, land without a crop.
I don’t sit here to write what I now know,
But to turn up by happy accident
The formulations random sounds bestow,
Which paradoxically seem heaven sent.
The attitude that finds such providence
Is faith in a Sublime Intelligence.