An author I like describes writing as child’s play, meaning:
Stories he wove in the creche are worth real money, meaning:
His hallucinations are printed and bound.
An author I like has a wife who helps out occasionally.
He composed a dedication to her sanguinity.
It’s sweeter than I can stand.
‘Comparison is the slow immersion of the soul in acid,’ I muster.
A cartoon villain cackles in my throat.
I slide my pen sidewise to the margins, where
Doodles distract from my assignment; I must describe the summer pause.
I am six, sun-baked, flash-frozen. The paper before me is tundra,
So blank, any print would spoil it. How I hate my hieroglyphs.
‘What did you do?’ the teacher coaxes.
‘Fishing in the Wansbeck,’ I’ve rehearsed.
But not, ‘My net sank in hollows. It filled with darts.’
Nor, ‘Herding shadows, collecting commas.’
Nor a spluttered, ‘Don’t make me salt my catch as letterforms.’
The page. Stays. Empty.
Unless instead of writing, you’d take thinking;
Unless instead of thinking, you’d take seeing;
Unless instead of seeing, you’d take being
Under a yellow bridge,
Fish winging my heels,
Then I’d conjure you verse.
