17 September 2009

I don't expect to be inspired tonight (and the nerve I have beginning each poem with "I" and forever speaking of tonights). The constant adrenaline stream of today has emptied into the ocean where I'm stuck. The rain just moves me around (even my handwriting is slow and deliberate and meant to be tidy and this was meant to be waterproof paper but then it would be less of paper) and more of tonight will bleed into tomorrow. Catching reflections off the waves and these water metaphors are just barely enough to drown out the sound of a (Quick! Someone! A bucket of--yes--water and soon! This lack of poetry will set the whole house ablaze!)