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.