It is 11
and the words do not come,
denied by drowse
and doubt
and indifference
and fear,
some too hot to hoist,
the rest too dull to write,
the sheet before me
a vast white gulf,
a deep white crevasse
that swallows ideas whole.
I can only describe
their reticence,
which is mine,
their silenced strife
to become
story or stanza,
to one day speak
slightly louder than
the hum of the refrigerator
or the quiet fury of the furnace,
and to perhaps heat or cool.
The words ride
the carousel in my head
and do not yield
when the cycling stops
and the music mutes,
unrelenting to
remain
unreleased
to the world,
secure in obscurity
and anonymity,
like the
run of quail
through tall brush
in the early hours
of the morn.