Free Verse   Just like playing tennis without a net, or so Frost complained, thus calling to mind the claim that, without God, all is permitted, or that, without a clutch, we’re just grinding our gears — making noise, getting nowhere, achieving nothing. Maybe so. The rules make the game a game and something to care about. Of course, Frost thought most poets were fools anyway — perched high in his umpire’s chair, he gazed down on a world of double faults, clumsy footwork, and misdirected shots, so all the arabesques and somersaults and other netless tricks were simply not dances he could see, music he could hear — just chaos — something to scorn, something to fear.     © Michael Fleming Dummerston, Vermont December 2024