Poem 11

There’s a middle of the night mode

When I’m tired and awake

When I can’t stop going and

I just can’t wait

to sink

my head

 into pillows

and soft dreamlike blankets

and it doesn’t happen

for hours

into minutes

into seconds

prose becomes poetry, (my muse hasn’t the faintest idea what scarlet looks like)

poetry that has lost its shape, but the sounds I can hear

and the tap of the keys is a drumline

a beat

a rhythm of its own

and I am ready to write

and I’m ready to sleep

there’s a line twixt the two that I

cannot see

cannot know

cannot plumb

all I know is words

on paper