That Kind of Hazy Horizon

Yes, I have that kind of crazy
that sits down and writes
poem after poem after poem.

A swig of rhyme,
a twig of kept time,
a measure of musical
all from this chair.

That means 
no more or less
than it means.

It means that I write
poems. 

And then I write
poems.

To what end?
There are poems
that come here
and stay here
and stray here
and play there. 

For what purpose?
I propose 
that purposes
are questions best answered
after the fact
of the fact
of a tract
of hand-tilled land.