sometimes the words are in another world
and you do not love them as much
they do not call for you
sometimes the poems are just clay
they do not form anything but clay
only clay

on the good days, they become the words
that call to you, and you take the words
from their worlds
and use them to articulate yours,

somedays they form in your sleep
and in the morning
you remember and write,
them,
in the mundane notebook
that you have chosen,
anointed to write the words,
the paper that holds them in this world.

you bring the words into meanings more beautiful together
than echoing alone
in their own separate worlds.