new metric

search breach beyond reach,

                     words not words

                          but that which is only words,

          t.s. eliot somehow but not him only,

                                                                  not yet then,

                  more core soothes the pores,

        repetition in instructions

        is intuition for benedictions,

                           but that is not enough

the thought that is brought under the bough

                                                         requires tempering,

                in lines as in life,

body arching to the marching code,

                                               something already said,

                                    it was not said like this before,

it might suffice,

              for the art of poetry is to find

                                                  what will suffice,

                 this is wallace stevens fully,

       then wait,

hark the spark where the bark hurls and cracks,

if that seems good,

                       grab gods in a goblet of gold,

as the inspiration might fly

                   to strip the ripen ribs,

                                           of what was said

once or twice or several time,

       but never sufficient

            to the pleasing pulse that pulls the pulp,

for a new metric that holds the old

in the beating feeling of fleeting bleats,

where lowered sounds and memories,

inert diptychs of inherent dictamens,

blur boarded bold boredom in glarings of granted gratitude