Writing is writing and drawing is drawing, yes,
until you see words running down your true love’s neck,
and tracing the curve of her back — and the sketch
of the stretch and the fetch and the catch of the west wind,
and the waters and forests it passed — the sail and stress
of her favorite old dress — Ulysses, I guess — in graphite,
charcoal, or pen, and the paper you press, in praise
of the poet you bless in the end.