The Work Suppose you scribe your poem on an ample linen page— hand-wrought, taut but with a supple weave. Now envision a pair of Japanese shears in a crafter’s practiced hands. She cuts a fine notch in the paper. Another deft slice— two elegant scraps. Suppose they bind together with invisible sap, become wings of a luna moth. Suppose you are also that craftswoman. Suppose poetry is flight.