I know the answer. If you ever have read
Emerson, or Thoreau, Whitman,
or the plaque on the wall your momma
prayed to.
Or, stared over a white blank page,
wondering,  where in torment or
ecstasy, their inspiration arose.
Or felt feelings lump up into
an unswallowable lump in your throat,
blended ink and tears into anything,
I know you are,

knowing,
what I mean.