I can’t even type a first word
without thinking of a second,
then a third, and so on and so on
till I get to the end. At the end
I think of the words I should have
written, or at least offer a lament
for those unused, but in truth
I cannot tell what they were.

It is like
I am on a country lane
leading into dark forest —
not dangerous woods, but still
unexplored. Then it changes
to the sea, then to a deserted
town street at two AM. Nothing
seems troubled or evil, just
unfriendly impersonally; not meant
for human eyes or my eyes
in particular.

When they fade
I go on to make the coffee
or pet the cat, who sleeps
casually on the table
not thinking of woods or ocean
or empty town.

The cat gets up and goes off
to do her cat things; I sit up
or lie down bemoaning
the things I haven’t done
or will not do or cannot do.
They vanish too, not leaving
anything behind — what was
I thinking of, or should I say
of what was I thinking?
I should say that. I should speak only
in perfect sentences filled with
righteous language.

“Make the fields
ready for their crop, lend them
fertility to use as they see fit.
I am a farmer now; I raise the sun
and the rain over these, my plants,
my fodder…”

except, of course,
I’m not. I’m a poet
or once was.

I don’t till soil, I don’t know how
to grow anything. I get up
and wash the dishes, pet my
unsatisfied cat, and sit waiting
for a new poem to rise
and come out of me; I sit
a lot and wait a lot.

I only know
what I’m supposed to do,
and all of that is locked within me;
all of the poems left
struggle to get out

as if they know
of a fire that is coming soon
to ravage the woods, the sea,
the town, leaving me
comfortable and
with nowhere to stand.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T