Seldom does it do any good
to read a poem as you
fall asleep. The page
flashes two, three times
and suddenly you know
there is no going on.
Surrender is sweet.
Sometimes, the unread poem
gets trapped and the part
of you that doesn’t sleep
chews it like a happy bone.
Perhaps you awaken early
and the unread poem has
etched something into the
stone of your brain where
the day’s work begins.
(bluebird: 10000birds.com; swallow-tailed kite: raptorresearchfoundation.org)
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Ink is blood. It really is.
Yep. You know that as well as anyone.
I just got an email from my friend and mentor Peter Sears, who is the Poet Laureate of Oregon. He suggested that I remove the last line in the second stanza and finish the poem with the original last line: “the day’s work begins.” It knocked me out. As usual, he is right on. Yes, ink is blood, but we KNOW that.