Rhapsodic
eyes, suddenly open
in the night (mine)
misty (they)
panting, sweating (me)
I bleed some words onto a page
how do they feel?
(these words)
what are they trying
to say? (to you)
what do they want?
(from me)
I sleep again
fitfully
words…pages…books…writing
flashing through my
thoughts
maybe these thoughts are
dreams
is a dream a wish?
a thought an action?
I must have slept
for it is morning now
and I am calm
the page looks at me
(expectantly)
I ignore it
it wants too much of me
always demanding
but don’t they know that
I love them?
(these words)
I sweat over them
nurture them
I want them to be quiet
(tranquil)
I want them to grow up
(be whole)
I can ignore the screams
no longer
I carry the page
to my desk
and consume its patterns
is it happy?
(this page)
does it need feeding
some more
or is it replete?
another word drips unbidden
to the page
to fall among its
siblings
is it happy with where
I put it?
has the page
accepted it?
it seems so, because
the weight and shape
seem
balanced
the page has stopped
its incessant noise
and the words have
settled
comfortably
but when I read it
does it say
what I wanted?
(to you, to me)
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