A piece of free verse I wrote last November,
which was unseasonably warm, and humid, as I recall,
after driving home at night in a downpour,
no real meter, no rhyme scheme to speak of at all.

It's a bunch of pretty images, I suppose, but I don't hear anything I expect to hear out of it, except perhaps the cliche of brilliance in bright lights on stark red. I think it demonstrates the weakness of free verse, and at any rate it's always made me particularly unhappy as a product of my efforts at writing poetry.