October 23, 2018

poet, interrupted

Had she been the one to hold the leash on time, her lines would have arrived hours ago,
and the fistful of conversations keeping her from solitude and silence would have been, instead, 
a welcome and genial reward. But the day had loosened from its moorings 
at the beginning, her usual wake-up rattled and delayed by strange dreams,
which shifted the tectonic plates of all ensuing plans. Now, finally abandoned
to her work table, she is scratching at the callus that grew in the span of those few
entangled hours. Below it, she's convinced, lies some soft, diaphanous work of art,
but when she gets under the skin, she finds only an unexpected grey remorse, 
like she'd missed a full moon because she was too busy dusting the furniture,
and the whole sky had lit up while she swiped at each surface, not seeing any of it at all.