Uneven meter

I find I've had 
a number of loves, 
arranged in ways 
innumerable 
at various times 
available 
to drop a plumbline 

down all the way through 

by angles and light,
by shape and form
by velocity and impact point,
and crack and surface sheen 
through depths

to stir up a memory I never
had

that runs and pulls through
several that were. I tug.
If it holds, then that's
a verse.

I find the refrain
rings familiar, sir
- eventually. 

The danger of writing 
things this way is that 
- while they end up 
believable, plausible
 - they have 
a disconcerting chance
of coming true, like
an augury medieval
only seen to match
just now, too late
to do anything about
the coincidence.  

Curse of Nostradamus, 
maybe. Given interpretation, 
anything sufficiently vague
might specifically hit a number
of future bullseyes, sticking deep
enough
to  
quiver in the hand
and draw blood. 

Retrospect, hindsight! 
The worst-case and next best
thing to omniscience, or 
at least clairvoyance 
or prescience. 

If you drop a heavy line
plumb true down through 
enough feeling, meaning,
value found in experience, 
it is practically bound 
to clatter around 
and become
autobiographical 

at some point,
some day hence,
future tense. 
That's if you keep 
taking risks for real, 
which I do, too. 

So any time I write 
a really horrible line 
or terrible verse - old sense, 
both terms - I shudder a bit 
lest the risk I take
to profit by creatively

find recompense.