ANGLING

        Each morning, early, I go in to fish,
        not out, beside a pond or nearby lake,
        but into my subconscious mind and wish
        for rhymes and subject matter I can make
        into a poem that  finally will seem
        as cogent and coherent as if made
        to order from some pre-existing theme
        that, by the end, is artfully displayed.
        The truth, however, is quite otherwise,
        since I have no foreknowing where my lines
        will go, and one by one I must devise
        my route within these rigorous confines.
             When things go just as well as I might wish,
             I can be happy that I’ve caught my fish.

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