(Half a year and)
Not
One
Drop
of
puddled prose
gathered in the swollen –
-hearted silence
Not one
bead
of sad of glad of surge of word and sudden rush of perfect lines to
write the openings of stories that when you push the door expect a brilliant light
and not the black sewn seam stitched up before the words had even fully flowed
Anxious for celestial pools
I
have
only
dri
pp
ed
.