There are two ways to wear
a hole in a poem.
Two ways to tear
the edges ragged.
One way exhausts
you and the words.
It happens on a
screen, processing,
rearranging, trading,
deciding, choosing,
worrying, changing,
deleting, and cutting.
The other way to wear
a hole in a poem
is an invigorating
process. It happens
on a cotton rag page
softened to a fine fuzz
by hands persuading and
pleading for one singing
line to pierce your heart.
Transformation like
this happens whenever
it is now. Paper pulp is
woven under water
and pressed. Deckled
edges leave proof that my
imagination got soaked.
Holes worn in paper show
where the baptism happened.
I used C.S. Lewis' quote about George MacDonald's work baptizing his imagination as a prompt.
