Literature Lost

Sometimes I feel the beginnings of a poem forming,

its baby bird beak pecking at the shell of my skull and

I ignore it.

Sometimes I see the shape of an interesting concept or

a perfectly phrased metaphor forms suggestively –

a succulent slice of savory language, or

a clever narrative might orchestrate itself artfully or

an untried avant garde style of self-expression will

flirt effectively with my puzzle – loving mind and

I will delight in the idea but

allow it to evaporate from my consciousness.

Sometimes the person inspired

wants only to be rooted in the present,

to simply live and experience aliveness

solely through the immediate input

of every one of the fleshy senses.

Many poems and stories

have gone undocumented

in favor of me taking the time

to smell my husband’s skin.

H. Dare