I feel the first slippery
silken drops of poetry rise
to spill from the pen-tip:
How to catch them perfectly, in
which spine-stitched notebook,
creamy satin pages yet unsullied?
The torrent presses, escapes, warm, wet
ink spills, runs through fingers grasping,
visions glitter in soft jewel colors
a message thumps in tick tock staccato, pulse
racing now thickening warm verse slipping
onto the damp page, elastic
slick with portent,
dry soon as the
moment surely
fades
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