the tip of my pen
hot, most likely from its placement
beside the laptop, but not.
a drawer full, who does that?
either way, whether the pen's fire is the result
of the machine's heat or the force to which the words
push down against me
pressing against a pink-lined page,
maybe i'll never know.
morning crawled in
there i was stepping into the onyx dawn
long before it called its light.
the earth's face inklike, spider webs
catching at my cheeks. already at work
keeping things together and letting them
fall apart, jokingly balancing life.
the water warm as my fingers crawled against the surface
frogs sharing their swim with the near full moon
me sharing my disgust with the night insects,
my eyes stretching between the here and now
while awaiting a joyous tone. strange sunday
i laugh reminding myself of my lonesomeness
and of the dawn's curse.
with little worry the pen dries, its ball point tired
sunlight showers the tile in iridescent light and my face,
well it's awash. maybe the days when my pen was cold
i was to learn? patience, not always ready to pour-
but i've been restrained and that pen has been kind.
