i am convinced that poetry lives,
in this witched hour.
that the clock cannot know it for fear of ruin,
so it’s moved about daily -
with the moon, or the wind, or an army of verse-starved vermin.

i know it by the air,
a crisp carrier of electric potential.

i spend half of each day in search of the scent,
and when the clock strikes,
wind changes,
senses awaken,
there best be a pen within reach.

for the hour will pass and the fog will return,
the current cut off till tomorrow.

on the eve of a century, quartered.
an even twenty-five.
i am equal parts wobbly legs, creaking bones,
time taking body and heart for entirely different rides.

i lately choose paper over plastic keys,
the long, slow scratch over instant pitch and publish,
and sometimes, even then, i come up dry.

i start a million stories,
poems spring fresh from soggy ground,
but all grow tired, roots shrivel just inches from the spring,
seeds fall on sand, quick and swallowed whole.

i see maps in the strands left on wet shower walls.
i see depth beyond the puddle’s mud bottom.

i was driving last night, when the lights turned to flashing,
no one worth bossing left awake in this town.
i let the blinking yellow light me up,
recharge what’s drained,
ignite what’s ready
or not . . .

all’s set to unfurl,
for the next quarter century begins at dawn.