I wrote three poems today —
or really four,
because that one
is probably more than one,
but I don’t think it’s really more than two —

And now there’s this,
so that makes five, I think,
which makes me want to say,
“Oh, wow, that’s something—
look, I’m writing things again;
I’ve found that thing
(whatever that thing is)
that makes the words pour out.”

Or maybe just
“I’ve finally found the stopper,
yanked it loose.”

Regardless,
I have written, now,
five poems
and later I will take them all apart
and strip them for their marrow
as one does.

And this will be the day
(I hope it will)
that I look back on,
saying,
These five poems
became the start of fifty-five more poems,
five hundred fifty-five,
of this great stream of neverending poems
that tumbles me along
and does not die.