The pen is held; again the ink will flow.
And in that while I’m lost in thoughts of rhyme:
The unimagined couplet that I know
Will come into existence, given time.

I hope. But as I push and pull I lose
Myself in practised jerks – I squeeze the nib
And fantasize about the poem who
Will squirm beneath my weight. And breathe. And live.

If only. I have written in a burst
And ink already stains the sheets I turn
In nightly bouts of poorly practised verse,
I practice poetry that can’t be learned

Alone. The poet holds his pen to write
And quickly dissipates his dull delight.