A Poet's Wish

Sometimes I wish that

the damned poem--

that wretched hag-maiden

of words and pauses and commas and ideas

and words words words--sometimes

I wish my hand-maiden,

smirking and taunting with

shielded eye and sinuous

shadow hidden in half-memory--

yes! THAT hag-maiden--right there!

Sometimes

I wish she would grant me a gift from

her treasure trove, a simple thing

from one who knows and holds

so much. . .

I would ask her to give me a poem whole,

a poem whole, rich in language from gods and gophers,

resplendent in thunder swans striking new life

into the centre of dewdrops.

This poem would gently fold

its completeness into my hand, my mind, my being

and vibrate there, every comma bristling

in Perfection..

Sometimes , perhaps in dreams like this,

the forging hand can indeed strike sparks

of gold on the anvil

and push back the shadows

in one master stroke

incapable of error.

But these moments of hope only muffle

for a quiet moment

the lyrical cackle of my maiden of choice

receding into the cavern of metaphors

where we

cohabit in

essential

disunity.