More terrifying than a blank page
is the line that goes nowhere, a
tunnel ending in granite,
a dream rushing into sweat
and trembling, to a tiger’s teeth.
But not writing is a good thing
at times- an admission, sort of-
that links the pen, not the poet
with the subject: I won’t try that
this night, on such a night.
Not when your scent slips
under the door stop,
the rustle of your dress
through the window cracks;
no, I will not write to you tonight.
Better I try to look
for the garden slug that seeps
into my flowers, or the lost
bird whistling in the night,
waiting for its mate to lead
it home, or to the safe place:
to the nest that hangs on a bough
lowered in the spring rain
to the second floor window
of my house. No, I will
not write to you.
Not this night. Of all nights.