"I rarely set out intending to write a poem," Art says. "Poems happen." I know what he means, though I wouldn't exactly put it that way. For me, what happens is an experience that, for some reason, strikes me as needing to be worked out, completed as it were, in a poem. There is something about the experience that demands as precise an utterance as I can manage. There may be nothing especially "poetic" about the experience. This morning, for instance, at Mass, the thought occurred to me that Biblical literalism and scientific materialism complement each other rather nicely. For the former words are merely signs and statements strictly one dimensional. For the latter everything is nothing more than its ingredients. One could explore this in an essay, but it came to me as a poem in potentia. Now comes the time of waiting and listening.