I’m not able to write here
staring down a host of blank word documents
like I’m in a Mexican standoff
but I’ve spent all my ammunition in literary gunfights
back in Victoria.
Hands hover over the keys
unmoving and dipped in stone
like a piano player trying
to hammer out a sonata with
My brother’s house is a place of calm
where the flood of words is dammed up
(for my safety.)
So I go outside and close my eyes
and listen to the birds
and the cars and all the other things that are now
just sounds and images
and not grist for material.
I’m not sure yet if I like this
if this is safety, or stagnation
If I’m out of the woods
or lost within them yet sitting on a comfortable patch of grass.
I like the sounds of the birds though.