Sonnet I

When it seems that everything’s been said,
I’m still stirred by some unformed thing to say,
deep down I think I’ll find it in my head,
some spell to keep this languaging at bay.
My thinking is my blessing and my curse,
thank God today it’s yielding precious little,
but to be silent or be easy, which is worse?
Critics answer in their voices hot with spittle—
How clean such lofty voices sure must be
to have escaped all that upon which it is frowned,
what distances such confidence must see
while I kick about old fruit upon old ground.
I started for somewhere else but still I’m here,
a little circle for myself to hold the fear.