Dominique Larntz * December 11, 2012

 

Even I fall
into the spire spiral
of seeking status.

From my solitude
there waits an imagined
audience, anxious for words.

I’m less prolific than I could be.
Shamed for writing too slowly, my pen nestles
as a needle against my thumb.

The drumbeat of my blood presses
me to create a clever lyric to hush
that great fool wanderer of a muse.

She laughs at my manufactured timeline
and its coated companion, stress. She trades
this suggested piercing for sunshine.

Her compositions blossom into me
off-demand when I am not ruminating
about my breathless audience.

When I am pouring a glass of tea,
liquid in the complete pleasure of being
myself within a wave of language.