Not sure of normal,
I wake at five with
no poems pressing—
as if that early morning
well is going dry. But old
poems charge in the evening
now wanting to be rewritten,
wanting perspective on
an even more imperfect world
begging some new balance
we shall call truth, despite
the science of what we know
as the latest interpretation
of the facts, of reality, of what
we have to deal with now.
drycrikjournal 