I don't know if I’m good enough.
Oh, I can string the words
like silvery, satin, wild-caught pearls
along a silken line...
or foment strong, heavy words like,
boots that march in bloody mud,
or hot, shivering sand.
I can spit them out
when they cloy.
I can bite them back
when, like silent razors,
they slice swift and clean.
But every day...
every day when the word count rises,
when writing’s the thing and not the play,
when words must stick together in factory formation
to add up, to bring forth, to produce...
maybe I’m not good enough for that.
Oh, I can string the words
like silvery, satin, wild-caught pearls
along a silken line...
or foment strong, heavy words like,
boots that march in bloody mud,
or hot, shivering sand.
I can spit them out
when they cloy.
I can bite them back
when, like silent razors,
they slice swift and clean.
But every day...
every day when the word count rises,
when writing’s the thing and not the play,
when words must stick together in factory formation
to add up, to bring forth, to produce...
maybe I’m not good enough for that.
Sunday, May 11, 2014
written at MFA in NH