Obsession, Anonymous, Mourning Light


For this is bigger, crisis of body and
soul only lifted when I write ─
glorious obsession, going nowhere.

Last quarter moon in a sunny sky.
Birds are endless friends, water waves in both
directions, lake can’t make up her mind.

How far is poetry from insanity?
How far am I?
I live for caffeine clarity nuanced by nicotine,

sustained by midnight kitchen trysts ─
why, when love lay beside me?
Love is my word processor, love is words.

Love is my words on the printed page.
How many roads to wholeness can there be?
For me, this one.

This one.
I have written and now must somehow
find a way to justify the rest of my day.


You’re a writer so write
the voice said.

Seize the inspiration
purring all around.

Your days are numbered
you know.

Do you think you’ll wish
you’d watched more TV?

Or spent what’s left
licking editors’ envelopes,

hoping to breathe life
into the already born?

You’re a writer so write
the voice said.

Your days are numbered.
You know you know.

Mourning Light

The early sun comes callously across the pane,
laying on hands, one that holds this pointed pen
transfusing words into a page.

I have not yet begun to write,
and the hand, exposed, exclaims “No!” 
The skin cannot already be this slack, these

blue and swollen river veins must recede and
bring alabaster answers back
to the quivering question of my tenuous time.

But the light denies my denial, quickening this
stranger’s hand, this hand that’s held the pages of
my plot, and is already foreshadowing the denouement.

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