I’ve been thinking about the line between poetry and prose, whether it’s wiggly or straight, dotted or plain. And I’ve decided it is, if anything, the faintest outline of a path, a deer trail in the woods, a bend in the rushes.

The words make a difference, of course, and the care with which they’re placed on the page. There are line starts and breaks, and the music of the cadence — these can separate the two.

But mostly there is one bucket of beauty we dip into and drink from.

Will it nourish us, frustrate us, lead us to lines wiggly or straight? That seems beyond the point when we’re possessed. The point is to translate the beauty as best we can.