I imagine an old woman sitting (place
irrelevant, as well as time) knitting
the fabric of a poem into a coat.
To be worn, to be spoken, to be lived, if poems can be lived like the dreams we fall into out of wakefulness and the diligence with which we read.
Then shed because the size is wrong, or the style doesn't suit, or the sun won't set in proper and perfect alignment with the waning threads.
I imagine climbing onto a stage
with appropriate gesticulations,
the dancer of word waves.
And I imagine genesis as more than just another sentence.