Where do the words go when

they are not mine? — beyond

the borders of our invented

space & time, into

a pool of creation where

the lucky writer who remembers to ask

for the right words

finds their heartstrings played by

the stars themselves.

they confront apparitions,

yet this time they are not hell —

their mind, the double-edged sword

on lucky nights will not yield wounds.

for the right words do not sharpen

the writer’s eye, nor the writer’s tongue —

they illuminate the writer’s

soul.

I know I dapple in the waves of words,

so I ask myself to swim

but tonight as I try to write this poem

I am somewhat void of

grace – I only get up to my

waist.

the right place,

the right time,

the right words –

for them wishing

will no longer do,

so into our other worlds

I find myself & I

submerge