There are no poems in me today.
The weary world is calling, “sleep,”
and I, having followed the lure,
found only a siren too tired to keep me.
There are no poems in me afterward.
When after wondering what this feeling this,
I never quite complete the thought,
and lose the sense of why it was
I ever felt it in the first place.
There were no poems in me then.
Because what I wrote was hardly more than words.
When you try too hard to force meaning from desire,
a certain poverty overcomes you,
which you promise to recover some future day
only to marvel at how distant the “future” stays.
Finally, I haven’t a poem for you today.
Only these words that search always,
and remind me to think,
and keep me safe,
when the arms of the weary world surround me.
The weary world is calling, “sleep,”
and I, having followed the lure,
found only a siren too tired to keep me.
There are no poems in me afterward.
When after wondering what this feeling this,
I never quite complete the thought,
and lose the sense of why it was
I ever felt it in the first place.
There were no poems in me then.
Because what I wrote was hardly more than words.
When you try too hard to force meaning from desire,
a certain poverty overcomes you,
which you promise to recover some future day
only to marvel at how distant the “future” stays.
Finally, I haven’t a poem for you today.
Only these words that search always,
and remind me to think,
and keep me safe,
when the arms of the weary world surround me.