Sunday, April 25, 2010


Who knows
how to write a poem?
To create a living creature
on the page, to watch it writhe
and breathe, to capture eyes. To want desire,

love, perhaps both. But
my typing? Not a chance.

Console me, O Muse. Touch my hands
until I forget the fumbling
to find the true words.
You say,

on the page the words are black for everyone,
like sin. Or soot."

1 comment:

  1. You ARE on a roll tonight, aren't you? I enjoy the last two lines immensely.