Another night scratching my head
as I reach for a pencil.
Another night spent torturing words
in the mind’s muddied trenches,
proving that yes you can press money
from guile and oil from stone –
If you’d just continue squeezing please . . .
I’m reminded of other nights,
other battered moons and throw-away stars,
other dusky planets,
the alien writer there also looking
for the right words in the proper order;
holding the equivalent of a pencil
in what passes for a hand.