How to Write a Poem

Write traps for the rook, the fox, the deer—
but study better whatever might wander
into the blind: the possum, the raccoon—
even the spider drinking dew from your tent.
 
If you should find a conch or clamshell
stranded on the beach, scrawl your loss
within its whorls and throw it back to sea—
then listen for old voices breaking with the waves.
 
Write to every kind of ghost you know:
the poltergeist searching for the bottle opener;
the Victorian woman wringing her hands
in the wicker chair; each ancestor behind you,
 
inspecting every scrap and skin cell
to find traces of themselves; but above all,
write to the person you missed most
when you read the word ghost.
 
Write with your back against your fears;
with every word, take one step away.
When you're ready for the volta, be quick
with every moment chambered at your hip.
 
Engrave a second name on every word that flies.
Speak from your memory; aim with your eyes.
Write to hold hands with everything that dies.
Write so you can never look away.
 

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