Mostly, these days, rarely or not at all, it seems.
Days and nights for weeks go by without a single peep;
without a sound, or even hope for something sleek
or sharp, or bright. All night long for nights and nights
I lie awake in bed and only dream what I might write.
But sometimes, waking at some ungodly hour, I rise;
a word, or two or three, or fragments left behind from dreams
assert themselves and will not be denied. At times
like these, a foolish man would choose instead to sleep.
And I’m no fool; I forego rest and write what I must keep.