Poetry has many inspections
each line, like thought, re-touched.
We frown at fingered collections
of nouns, and other, stuff.
There are troublesome inflections
and bleeding, wrung-out, verbs,
the wandering explications
of rhymes, the metre, serves.
There are stand alone conjunctions
in hope, that it, amazes,
where
in solitude it functions
in contrived, schematic, phrases.

Words and image  Tommy Carroll