The Paper and Its Hour

I'm where I wanted to be, this little desk,
a vase of flower.  In these moments, the voice
is weak, the pen, loud and lively.

The relationship of ink to paper all feathery
tailed and eyes, a busy heart, a wind
in the dress of an owl;  the one

that watches always.

Here night's cloudy spirals converge into
a tower on the sea, a flock of bird dispersed
like powder in the floodlights.

This is where I want to be, most beautiful
and helpless hour, the invisible bone
of word, white skeins of dream

and so the story.


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