.
I could be up all night
without a single line to write,
I might be ass-in-chair till dawn
eyes propped with matchsticks
waiting for a light,
I might sit with fingers
poised above a keyboard
without a thought in sight
like condors on thermals
scanning the earth for a bite,
the page desert-dry and white,
might even catch some moon-talk
—she speaks, you know,
whispers to Venus when I turn my head
so, how would I know then what she said?
—prescience, a curse, or worse: imagination
with eyes peeled and ears perked
listening for a cracked spark
in the music of the spheres
(an old idea that came to a Greek
who was also up once almost in tears
way past bedtime waiting for a theory,
or the sense to hit the sheets)
………………………….
Jim Culleny; 2008
………………………….
Blink 