Somewhere in the night
a new poem is born
yet, no one know it's awaken
aside from the body
where it came.
Empty now,
in the dead cold of the night
the body will drink coffee
or liquor
or smoke cigarettes
or stare at windows
to fill what was used up
but still ends up hollow
restlessness filling in.
And before sleeping,
the body will read the poem
and will be furious
almost disowning it
for the poem is now
more than the sum of his parts;
A glaring truth
only he knows what.
