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 ...