paraphrase
of the narrative,
just about
all of the time
there are days—grave,
or engrossing,
or just
frivolous days—
when no circuits
are tripped
by that surge of imperatives,
and I
have absolutely
nothing to say.
Whenever this
happens, I just sit
for a moment
and sift through stray
words I find caught
beneath my eyelids—
and arrange them
into reiterative
shapes
too simple,
too insistent, and too
true for explanation.
And whether or not
the arrangement
is great, I'll share
what I've made in the dark
with you anyway—
because just that kind
of blind exchange,
to me, at least,
is poetry.
