It is Written

Offered without comment.


It is Written


Why do poems die when written down?
I print a poem out, then take a pen
And make a few corrections, and the sound,
Pen scratching, comforts me. Then silence. Then

The furnace, fridge, or fan fills up the void—
Incompletely—like a radio
Masking a maniac at work—annoyed
That he must take precautions. When I go

Pick up my pen again and let it hover
Over some adoring adjective,
I am transformed from lunatic to lover
And, for a moment, poem and I live

In total harmony. Until I sever
All connection between us. Forever.