Monday, August 11, 2014



He has a million of them,
words, tumbling about,
evanescent as snowflakes
in his head ; until, for no
reason he has been able
to determine, a small
cluster of them collides,
clotting into mysterious,
provisional assemblies,
reassembling, discarding
abruptly some of their
number, sending out
lightning messages
hither and yon through
dark and never before
explored passages
of the brain in search
of other words that fit
their needs.  Bumping
and jostling up against
each other, they form
patterns, first in phrases,
fragments of sentences,
then sometimes a whole
paragraph or poem.
That’s how it happens.
And if only to clear out
his head, which is now
starting to ache, Coyote
scribbles them down
obediently on paper.
He calls this “writing.”


What a pleasure
then, with a breath,
to let them go again,
these words, and make
room for more. 

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