Composing The Poem Poem by David Earnhardt

My hands are mollusks
on this keyboard,
the sound of them typing
the hatching of silence
from the egg of the brain,
derived from language
older than any human thing.

Tiny tracks rummage
from the flat chicks of silence
crossing pages
their whiteness
with the will of nonrecurrent prayer.

Many lines
have been happily discarded
for the balance of silence
blankly breathing in
trustful as mercy
lost in the intoxication of generation,
full of infusible blood.