“The Well Is Dry”
The well is dry, the residue of ink explores
The walls of silence, crystalline in isolation from the roaring pen.
Surfaces have all been cleaned; shelves are empty now, and when
The hour dies, the index finger traces symbols, beads of inspiration born
Of ingots grown from sediment as saline prints–fingers
Soil the complaisant innocence of a parchment that never rests;
Rich papyrus–stretch marks in the margin–attests
That I am ever drowned in possibilities where wonder always lingers.
Surely, then, there is no pause to speak of in the daily common look
Through possibilities, the slumbering leaves of future chapters,
What exists and for the moment merely cages what’s been captured
Reveals nothing to or from me, yes! but for another time, another book.
My pen stands ready to offend not so much as to enrage
Itself. Not all that is and every crimson serif finds the page.