If a poem is just an unattached ideal drifting
from conception to conscience to
words often left scattered on a page
unreceived, or worse, rejected
by peers or students or
perhaps my own selfishness, laden
With narcissistic endeavors of self-doubt
Rumination on each flaw or misplaced
Commas, periods, exclamations—
The alternative is to net the ideal
Wrap it in synthetic wires
Process it into a cybernetic Eden
Where it will only become one leaf
On copper-wire trees, dead roots syphoning
Any flourishing condemned, the fruit readily ate.
Trifled Ambiguity 