Black The Starry Sky

And how many times have I written someone off
only to find another pen in my grasp.

As an offering, the object transforms
from inanimate to the being,
held more intimate than satin
sheets know how to embrace a frame,
a pen as a gift to a writer is not simple, it
is no mere practical item,
the evaluation of selection
is so delicate for this reason.
The minimalist’s predicament:
let the narrative roll out as the universe calls
for or fight to forge a specific weapon from
the ink. At what point do the stories
transcend the page?

I find myself flipping through notes,
crisscrossing arrows across the journal
connecting semi-colons and juxtapositions
I hadn’t noticed naturally occurring
within the scribbling. Behind the fiction
a realization.

The unconscious of a tale will unpack itself
no matter how tight the journal bound.
I cannot hold myself in contempt
for letting the words find themselves.

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