Finishing Bill Matthews said he knew when a poem was finished. It was like painting a floor, and you painted the floor until you got to the last corner. Then you brushed it in. Henry and I painted a fir floor cobalt blue. The walls, paper pulled down, scraped, gouges filled, we swabbed white. The day we finished, we closed the door and got in bed. That was the night our daughter figured how to turn a doorknob. Her feet questioned that the floor was complete. I told the young poet who asked, How do you know when a poem is done? I told her these parallels of floors. Well, she said, did that leave Bill stuck in a corner? And how did you get to bed over the wet floor? I do not know. I muffed. You’re right — that wasn’t quite true. There is always more to solve, like why a carpet, never? We loved that her feet were blue. Volume 8 No 1 - Page 47

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