some books strike me as a cornucopia of
juicy lucid words
it makes me need to use
but the writer is absent today
just as he was yesterday
and the want will soon retreat
as per piteous usual days
and i keep waiting for the flash
why is it the words come into knit as i lie in the dark
and scatter then after i pick up the book, the pen
up the all important light?
these words i like are shy and slime
they tinker together and i wait
for one brave group to stay
when the mindshade is illuminated
