I’ve stacked up notes and pens on my bed like I’m going to write a book.
The coffee’s cold, and a sitter plays piano with boys.
Rain pelts down the snowman out back,
and black birds heave like a sheet on the line.
I don’t have time to close my eyes, even at night.
The heater blazes my room and skips the rest.
My legs have melted into the bed,
and my eyes are eggs under a heavy mother.
The words for me are hardly born out of tireless work,
rather it’s the drifted thought, the accidental
prayers that rock me to sleep, the tired tick of a boat.
Only in sudden shifts of sound and mind do I wake to take note.
The piano crescendos then come to a hush.
Keep pen ready. You never know when you’ll hear.
Poetry happens in an unexpected turning,
when your periphery catches God from behind.