Sunday, September 12, 2010

Writing

The birds chirp like typists in the trees—
my day condenses to this: a fatal word—
the one thing they are lacking—
a gift they cannot understand—
the clouds move by too quickly for a thought
to get caught—I am the first idea
set to pounce—I blur in every thing—
there's only now the ink—to fix the strange—
that hollow jug reverberating without meaning—
it takes me hostage just the same—
the cry of something moving—
bereft of all but feeling—
the breath inside this cry—
is all I've left of life

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