Written br 12: 03: am br I begin between these black lines- br white spaces blinking back- br my two hands outstretched br crafting nothing; br I cannot write; br br crossed; br blocked, stoppages, br tea cup emptied, br usual tricks limp- br my muse bereft, br I am alone with br the fulsomeness of it. br br 12: 15: am br My Gods are all adrift. br My well's dig down br out of reach; br my mind's fount's dry-asleep. br Panic now br in this chronicling. br br 12: 20: am br Poetry's realm from me retreated br a cruel feeling; br that which came so easily before br is now silhouetted dimly. br I cry br a dry uncryable tear. br br 12: 53: am br I cup br a new cup of cold tea. br br br 1: 03: am br Whatever this is br come to me br gradually curiosity br now feels greater than br my writer's grief. br br I want to see br the outlines the specter is br to write nothing when nothing's there br no face br no driven ideas br no words span br no creativity transformed or fixed.... br br 1: 33: am br Hushed br I lie down with it; br exhausted on my bed of paradox- br it's experience embraced. br I am swept to the surrender br of writing about the nothingness br at my pen, now shaking. br br 2: 53Lam br three drafts; br a small epiphany: br br Ample is all experience br no blank lines will ever reach br or witness. br br By this br my last lines written br after br 2: 53: am br from listlessness and nothing br to expressions of same- br poetically- br minor miracle this.