Out of Reach
10/1/12, 11 notes
The best poetry begins to form
When I have shut my eyes,
And trying to fall asleep, or
When I’m up to elbows
In the washing up bowl.
Better still, I’m
Out on a stroll, a mile
From a notebook or
A napkin. I could etch
It in my skin, but
I think I’ll pass.
No, I’ll just hold
It in my mind, I say,
Treasure at least one
Word, a working title…
But the harder I cling
To the splintering fragments
The more they drift
Like grains of sand
Through the egg timer.
So when I finally reach
The notebook, strained
To reach the masterpiece,
It’s another long-gone, far-
Off dream of another world
I’ll never have again.
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