Queer Corvid

The process is slow until it is fast, like most things.
It becomes effortless just before it breaks. You have to search
yourself for what you did before:
how you made yourself write, or how
you put your words back for a month, a year, ten years, hoping they’d mend
themselves.

No strategy retains its shape, no two poems
Come by the same way. Some flow like honey, some are hummingbirds that rocket fully formed into the light, some
You carve out line by agonizing line until the bones protrude.