If I open my inner ear to a particular frequency and tune in often and carefully enough, I can hear the music of the words. Poems come to me as sound first and foremost. The visual element comes second, possibly even third. As the words come to me, I whisper them aloud. I mutter to myself. I write down those quiet mutterings in a continuous longhand scrawl. I say to myself, don’t judge, don’t judge, don’t judge.