Writing Alone

Writing when I’m alone. A tired writing. Terrible, sleepy writing. So nothing goes right. Writing is absolute. Stains everywhere. The stain of words. Trembling. Writing is gracious. Kind and hefty. Turns back toward me. Like a detached face. Writing is combing through piles. Wailing and eyebrow raising. Swallowing my pencil. Horrible just like that. I left my pen and notebook at home. No one can bring it to me. So I’m grappling with a magazine. Inspiration is gracious. Writing alone. With the pen on my nightstand.