"Write about not being able to write!"

Poetry has lovely eyes
with irises like mirrors.
I see him chiefly at night
or in little orange evenings.

He prods my back
or cuffs my head;
once he nibbled my ear.

There was a time when I'd gasp
and whirl around
with a flushed face to greet him:
we were friends.
We spoke about everything,
each learning and teaching;

has my tongue grown tired?
We have much more to discuss,
but I cling to silence.

I see myself too clearly
in those patient, silvered eyes
and I am afraid
I cannot make them glow.