Losing My Place, with Nothing to Show
I panhandled for ideas until
the morning threw her veins
across the sky, creeping like alcohol
up a piece of chromatographer's paper.
I have the same thoughts
as all the friends I've met ---
equally murky, fueled on two hours' sleep.
The words are hide-and-go-seeking
where I'm not inclined to look,
and coming to visit
when I can't pick them up.
Five minutes alone with them
and a quart of coffee for breakfast --
I knew I'd jell this scrap of a journal page
beyond the blood in my caffeine stream.
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