for there’s what you planned to write about, br and what you find yourself br writing about; perhaps br find yourself, while writing about.. br br and there’s the poem itself; did you br consult it about what br its plans were? and when br it’s got itself written, br gone where it wanted to, br said what it wanted to say, br become what it wanted to become, br do you really know br what it’s finally and really about? br br is it telling you more about br you than you knew yourself? br is the poem writing you? br br did we, as with the unicorn, br feel the unspoken need for it, br and it became? br br in some other world, br did two grains of dust change places? br did a new sort of light br shine on a new sort of place br in some new sort of time? br br poems are like cats: br we think we own them; br they allow us certain rights, br but they own us.