Really doesn’t matter
that I cannot write right now,
can’t write at all —
my hands are too cold
and my mind is too soft
for that work

because it is work, you know —
even when my hands
are red-hot I find
the mind punches slowly
and I rise up afterwards
tired, exhausted even, my hands finally
gone to freezing.

So I sit here, thinking
about what I might write
when I feel like working
again, when my mind
and my hands can grip
a thought.

A thought chased away
by the nearness of my grip
eludes me, flies just out
of my fingers’ cold clasp;
it mocks me before
it vanishes, before it
evaporates and leaves
my mind tired and wondering
about what has happened.

But it really doesn’t matter
what I was going to write —
only that when I can, I do —
no matter
the pedestrian pace of it,
no matter
that it makes me frightened
of never again saying
what I want to, what I need
to say —
I want to say so much!
Want to declaim the sun’s fire, speak
passion about monsters,
talk tenderly as if love hid
among my words…
but why bother?

My hands are too cold;
I have to warm them up.
My mind is too soft;
I ought to firm it up.

Right now, though,
I’m going back to bed to
close my eyes, I’ll wait for
a seizure of a topic
to grab me awake;
right now, though,
I’m going to sleep.

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