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 and maybe fear.     © Michael Fleming Dummerston, Vermont December 2024