Where the Words Go

Damn your first lines and your last
your blind-mice musings
scuttling away
trapping tails and whiskers
under a door in my head
the one marked oblivion
(the other one's death)
Now ain't the time
for classy editing refinements
the roguish realignments
those icy logical embellishments
that nail such awkward trifles
firmly to reality's floor
I know the Devil's in the detail
but all those chores
must learn to wait
Beyond the germ of an idea
lurks something so much grander
than the ordering of fate
I glimpsed her for a moment
there in the shallows today
she raised her head
and whispered once
the sweetest words
swallowed by the wind
But I'm dead on my feet now
from an all night jaunt
sweating blood on a river full of bloat
Just ferry me to pen and ink
to conserve whichever meaning
I've a mind to remember I wrote
Or failing that maroon me alone
in some timeless desert
liberated from thought
then daub mustard on my eyes
to forget that fish I almost caught
Without literary equipment
I know dearly to my cost
when inspiration calls
the words are quickly lost
but I sense them swimming now
circling where the only sound
is a heartbeat that's my own
in some ocean where the wind never blows
while every day clings to empty
and the only consolation
means one less tomorrow
to fret