I’ve never known what I take we understand is

writer’s block.

I can write well past eternity

unless unless

unless unless


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

and exulted

six hundred six thousand six hundred thousand times


one time one time one time

one time….

No matter.

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

“How absurd!”

(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.

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