Burning heretics sticks
In my mind though there
Doesn’t seem to be a poem
Trapped in those words
That’s the way it often goes
My desire for a paean of love
Wanders among phrases
Like carved potato faces
Or Sheila’s laces and it is then
That I pour a fresh drink hoping
Wine’s caress will stimulate
The sleeping muse and drive
Small sheep abuse far from
My tongue (pleasing though
that sound may be) as my hands
Linger over this unproductive
Keyboard until, finally, some
Clear and lyrical perfect line
Begins to ring its singing bell
And leads me out of poets’ hell.
