Writer's Block, (blindly crawled over.)

“Words Come in a Orange, Plastic Bottle”


Late evening, summered light
Warm, wet, dark hair,
Browned shoulders.

(Rattle, rattle,
shhhh—
Like the pacification
Of a baby—
The sweetness of soap
Becomes powder and soured milk.
Put your first finger in her mouth
Jostle her a bit,
She will sleep. )

Twenty years passed.

Rattle, rattle, still—
Her hair tracing floral scent,
Rivulets of water
Map a basin down her back—
Trace grace—
nape of the neck to tailbone.
One hand out, craning like a
Tentacle-beaked bird.
She reaches, for The Rattle
of Less Innocence:
a pair of bottles,
on the blue glowing
nightstand,
(beside The Books
That Measure Time.)

Open the bottle!
Swallow your impetuousness,
Your intemperance,
Your fear.

Eat the words!
Pill the eats! Word the pills!
(No wonder they’re retreating.
Fled
ideas
inside you’re head.)