The Pen, the Hand, the Poem

Tonight, already I feel a slumber approaching— it counters my intentions, my expectations for brief commentary on the day. Or on the necessity of poetry. The insisting rhythm in the blood. The manner cells shift within, seeking a path. Following a ritual. A pattern. A measure of self, pen in hand, a metaphor itself. The pen, the hand, the poem. Transference of the idea circling in analytical brain cells. Release. Transposing from one form to another. •I did add a few lines to a poem in progress. An accomplishment in highest regard. Handfuls of different ideas slowly form, all at different extremes of completion. Rereading other books may help twist a stronger phrase on the page.

•38/ There is a joy bundled among a crowded city bus, sitting beside strangers with a heavy pelt of rain outside, raising the humidity and steam inside the bus— windows fogging over with the presence of others, multiple breaths, multiple lives, clusters of histories momentarily linked in the metal shell of the midcity line. A casual, weighted silence numbing their tongues.
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