Think of it as architecture or housework:
you can aerate any phrase with vowels
or introduce little tchotchkes and trinkets
with the clamor and cacophony of consonants.
Alliteration is just the furniture of consonance;
letters march out front and meet you at the door
ferrying the sound like a souvenir or keepsake.
I can usually find fuel for my efforts
in high-fidelity versification
in the curve of sound at the bay and port,
floating noise, fluid rivulets lapping up your shore
with one wave after another, scrimming across sand,
a splash that abuts formidable bulwarks.
And really, much of life’s most succulent events
are made of this, sound scraping scores
you knit together by stitching time
with garlands of pretty placed patter,
a woosh and a bounce
before the last ripping roar.