Not that you need to be a saint to have visions worth talking about. The most effective prescription, I suspect, is to be a disciplined sinner. Perfection, as Valery noted, is work.

I dance/for the joy of surviving, at the edge of the road.

The poem comes in the form of a blessing, like rapture breaking on the mind.

Darling, do you remember the man you married? Touch me, remind me who I am.

End with an image and don't explain.

A longing for the dance stirs in the buried life.

I dropped my hoe and ran into the house and started to write this poem, 'End of Summer.’ It began as a celebration of wild geese. Eventually the geese flew out of the poem, but I like to think they left behind the sound of their beating wings.