This week's link will lead you to a great article in The Paris Review's blog about the poem Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy's Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota.  In the article, Dan Piepenbring provides a number of different possible solutions to the enigmatic last line in James Wright's poem.

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,

Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year’s horses

Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.

http://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2015/06/23/i-have-wasted-my-life/

What I wonder about is how Wright arrived at that last line. Do you think it is possible to write toward such a surprise? Did the line happen as if by poetry magic? I'm interested in the whole question of writing with intention. Most of the time I try not to do that. But of course, all my prompts and word lists produce their own form of intention.

What do you think?