poem is like a window: at its purest, most
translucent is      a            cut jewel
facetted                  with brilliance;
sharp fires   fragment        and coalesce
in its deep        living           depths

but

too many of mine are putty-smeared,   are
yellow-crusted             with condensed
tobacco-tar    and,           in any case
are frosted                bathroom glass
to       let the light     in       while
stopping     lavatory scenes from getting


out.