Not all poems are created equal

Some, like a gym floor
Have dead spots here and there
That years later become obvious.

The poet owns the patience
Of the watchmaker
Looking close, making tiny
Time and sound adjustments

Still, all poems share a sort
of leaning in to perfection

And even though on second
Or even thirty-second view
Of the published collection
Edits may appeal

Sometimes one still shines
As a flawless, unchangeable jewel.


For Bill Graeser