The greatest poem br is the one you're writing, br br sparks flying from your pen br as from Vulcan's furnace, br br hand and arm lubricated br and calibrated with a mind br br that's up on a ladder br at its far end, br hopefully receiving notes br from an angel or two— br br ifresh breadi, br Rumi called it, br br a little piece of Soul, br 'out there' and sculpted br to perfection... br br or ineari perfection, br you see the next day br as you fix a flaw br that's appeared overnight, br br and a few more br the day after that.