There are people who think
we should all write more,
one poem a day,
one thousand poems a day,
five hundred fifty five thousand poems a day,
one for every thought
that slips along our nerves,
excepting only the poems about poetry;
the belly full of meaning
poetry offers
should be exorcised;
the places it lives should be cut out of us;
we should never write of it or speak of it.

Well, today
I’m ill informed and half asleep.
I haven’t watched the news for a week.
I’m alone for the night
with no one but the cat curled next to me
on the fleece blanket
while a documentary on Crohn’s Disease
plays unwatched in the next room.

I could get up,
or I could stay here until spring.

All I have tonight
is the poetry of poetry itself,
a right whale inside me,
dangerous, endangered, rising island
within my body reminding me of marvels
that could slip away and never return.

There may be something else to write about someday
and the poem I write then may be fibrous, luminous, may hold together
on its own and pass from me without pain,

but until then, I’ll write one poem about poetry,
write it over and over again,
one poem for the blessing of knowing
that poetry
still exists in me,
even if it’s hanging by a thread.

Even if it hurts.