Writer from Within

The less I move my lips at my 4:00 am Saturday morning sessions The more These words are trees standing still beside a racing river A long way away Freight train bores the night Moon without light Its alto horn Projects from nowhere entangles everywhere Uninhibited By barren maples and icy roads Abandoned homes and snowdrifts A shadow walking his dog under planets of street lights All powerless against the elk’s forlorn cry The long sigh reaches me in my living room Like a rope Or an armored snake That takes its slithering life with such mangled ease Iron bolts Shackles jolt and shudder to the lumber spindles I have no name but I am story Clack clack Clack clack Clack clack I count the halved steps of thunder from the mysterious miles Waning afar As the Rolling Stones once sang Love is like our music It’s here and then it’s gone I am magician Make things appear and disappear Conjure things to move Erase the past and future with Bastami’s ink baton I am startled back to life Perfect quiet Train absent if it ever was.