Re-writing is
playing cards
with old friends
edits in blood
turn fantasy to
reality my pen
a serpent ready
to strike no venom
lays dry on my
desk
is walnut
mid-century classic
lines
the altar
on which I pray
every day

It’s snowing on
my laptop wipers
cannot wipe
the screen
clean of white
exposing the
blackness of words
landmarks I’d
recognize a lamp
in a storm

the whiteout
spins me like  an
avalanche
tossing turning
upending words
pebbles stones
kicked up yet
nary a nick

Sitting in front
of a blank page
pulling sheets
overhead or drinking
cold coffee
page stares back
at you blankly
praying like
acolytes for
inspiration
dewy sprinkling
on green grass
sitting and
hoping for the
first word to
start
like watching
the sun rise

He was one
lover of four
he was the
last one
last lain railroad
track nearest my
heart
he’s back there
now in the
past
my heart aches
with holes
where four lovers
lived and that
wound is the
newest it bleeds
beats awkwardly
weeps
he stole a piece
of me making
me pang in anguish

I expected a call
yet all I heard
was night-time
silence
three o’clock a.m.
quiet
filled my room
like spray insulation
sealed
hopeful I wanted to hear
good news or lusty whisper
I just wanted to hear
something

what replaced me

I’m not an answering machine
somewhere to leave feelings
I have a room
full
of silence