I’ve never known what I take we understand is
I can write well past eternity
I’m not grabbed by an idea or until I grab hold.
And I’m well past midnight-stiff, startled, appalled.
That I’ve grabbed hold and
shaped and crafted
six hundred six thousand six hundred thousand times
one time one time one time
Is this what writers fear?
It scares me shot through to a place of
persistent, low-grade, three-a.m. terror.
Because my commitment is to write every day,
write something meaningful to me,
I do lie in bed many nights (as this one)
with an anxiety dreadfully real and
Yet even as I know and as I say
(and I do say it, I do pronounce it)
I know that come sun (or morning fog)
I’ll have my idea.
Just now, I don’t.
And I’m shot-though terror.