Non Finito

^{a poem composed entirely of lines cut from drafts of my other poems}

Michelangelo took care in choosing the stone, knowing it must already hold the curve of the jaw, eyes smooth as globes, an arm lightly extended— 

I invented this dessert called The Sweet Nothing: a bowl of ice topped with sugar.

According to legend, albatrosses often sleep in the sky, which explains why their flight appears so motionless. 

It is possible to predict the way the eye will sweep across an image.

I’ve forgotten how to write more than

Eavan Boland wrote, “How can I know a form unless I see it? / How can I see it now?”

Years ago, I pulled up to a truck stop between the highway and a strip mall. Looking for a bathroom, I opened a door that led instead to deep echoes; dark, starry crystalline walls. 

Until you’ve had enough, there’s no such thing as enough.

Michelangelo’s skill involved finding his form’s boundaries. He had to reach, but not cross them. 

A door could open anywhere in this poem.

Now I think I know how some priests have managed to stay celibate. Because they see us as a god does: completely, and too often.