A poet is often in darkness
Even when we are young

The nights I strode surely
Then stumbled
On the dark and moonless journey
From my desk to my bed
My lamp being frantically turned off moments before
For there was a sound
That could have been my parents

I had climbed out of bed
Carefully and quietly
The phrases and words and ideas
I had created moments before
still
Darting and flying and hiding and crying
In my head