I build them with pieces of thought that I’ve found without much revealing the meaning. While formless appearing they’re really quite round so I never send them for cleaning. They’re aren’t any chalk lines defining my field so I never swing for the bleachers. In spite or redemption, I harvest my yield; the finest I brew for my teachers. They stumble, my sonnets, my ballads take trips; my "ambic" have too many digits. While some are off honing with diamond tips I’m home building whatzits and widgets… with meaningless phrases and bits strung along like old Dr. Seuss wrote a Bob Dylan song.