I could be up all night
without a single line to write;
………………………
I might be ass-in-chair till 1st light
eyes propped with toothpicks.
………………………
Open, I might sit with digits
poised over a keyboard
………………………
like condors on thermals
scanning the earth for a bite
………………………
the desert page dry and white.
I might even catch some moon-talk.
………………………
She speaks, you know
—whispers to Venus when I turn my head.
………………………
So how might I know then what she said?
Telepathy, a poet’s curse, or worse.
………………………
Imagination, with its ears perked
for a little Music of the Spheres
………………………
(a defunct old idea that occurred to a Greek
once who was also up almost in tears
………………………
way past bedtime waiting for a theory
or the sense to hit the sheets).
by Jim Culleny at 3 Quarks Daily
