The Problem Was
The problem was a different sense of form.
He was all couplets, heroic and closed;
I always wanted to carry on, one line
into the next, never reaching an end,
or, if I did, imagining it might be
the possible beginning to a different train
of thought, which might lead to the exact
opposite of what I was saying now.
The problem was we rhymed in various ways:
he liked perfection; I preferred the wise
conjunction of nearly alike, almost
a match made in heaven, both of us most
certain we knew where to take the next line.
He loved his words the best, and I loved mine.
