American sentences roiled in Ginsberg's bed,
verbs and images, a sufficiency of lines
he hung like laundry drying in breezy air,
the hot mangled sheets of strangers
not worth a penny in the morning.

Word though leads on to word, 
and I have chosen darker ones, less traveled,
to write down, trim, boil, scrape artichoke leaves,
looking for a tender noun, an empty bowl full
of potential, just begging to be music.