trying to catch his horses

The Billy Collins volume that I am reading right now is called Nine Horses. I am growing more and more impressed with him. I liked the sound and the words before, but I am coming to think there is a substance, too. Almost all the poems are so ordinary at first glance, but I don't think I am projecting meaning onto them. But even if I am, maybe that is the point.

You may all be glad or indifferent to know that I am writing more again. A little of the fear is going away, though I imagine when I get the letter of rejection from SPU I will go hide under my rock again. The following is a still evolving poem, to Billy Collins. (I almost typed that as "Mr. Collins" until I realized how horrible the implications were.)

It is as difficult as I thought it might be
to write as you do, and to mimic
your casual words and your perambulating lines,

which are all about your tears--
the tears that spring on chopping an onion--
and about walking through your house and

your life in the morning sunlight and on
a rainy afternoon. You talked about breakfast
and alluded to the classical world before mentioning

that you woke up last night and stared at
the shapes made by a curtain, while listening
to the sleep of the living woman by your side.

And somehow all that is a poem and
I find that the top of my head has been grazed
by the axe the other Emily was looking for.

And so my pen is floating over this paper,
and ink is spilt in the form of
twenty-six velvet actors.