Drinking in a Blind Room

I'm not writing a poem now, I'm drinking wine in a dark room. As always I am tempted to drag the moon into this moment or whatever, make a fuss about something just like those who, not even seeing the moon or its light, just sit in the dark spinning webs for dead spiders. Why drag anything into a dark wine glass, as if you just caught it from the corner of a closed eye? Does imagination care to be hooked like a fish out of that overfished pond you call reverie or some other bull name? I'm not writing anything about the past or future, not even this present, this no-time has already moved into another dark room and has drunk a bottle of wine I had been saving for later. Dead poetry comes alive before you think about it, and by then it's probably too late.