The artists all asked me
What does it feel like?
Gathered tight together round
A small black table
And they bent their bodies
To every touch
Then fell away

I couldn't form an answer
The creeping of my nerves
Down spine to spindly fingers
Sharp as rusty screws
And dull as achy bones
It felt like nothing

The writers all asked me
What were you thinking?
Sprawled out sedately upon
A sleepy couch
Tell it all but not too much
One said
And make sure it is true

The howling wind
And deathly silence
The great valleys of snow
Which stole my mind
A muffled cry in the bleak north