the slack hours
of morning 
in grateful silences,
calm room, a promised sun 
not yet cleared 
the marvel of horizons, 
focuses.

i cast off sleep and
dream and 
look for ways 
in to that thinly 
settled country. 
i should beg 
to trespass yonder, 
beyond even that.

further yet to where 
escaped poems sing,
wildly, nightly. unfamiliar
comfortable terrain.

i pull from 
that darkness
the next slickening 
tendril of thoughts 
clodded with words.

and with it 
fresh in my hand
and before i drop it,
as an old man would
on to the hard floor 
of brittle memory,
i commit it to a vague 
electronic permanence.

again and often enough
until it forms whole
as the sun clears
the marveled horizon
and my wondering
resumes.