Written

12:03:am 
I begin between these black lines-- 
white spaces blinking back-- 
my two hands outstretched 
crafting nothing; 
I cannot write; 

crossed; 
blocked, stoppages, 
tea cup emptied, 
usual tricks limp-- 
my muse bereft, 
I am alone with 
the fulsomeness of it. 

12:15:am 
My Gods are all adrift. 
My well's dig down 
out of reach; 
my mind's fount's dry--asleep. 
Panic now 
in this chronicling. 

12:20:am 
Poetry's realm from me retreated 
a cruel feeling; 
that which came so easily before 
is now silhouetted dimly. 
I cry 
a dry uncryable tear. 

12:53:am 
I cup 
a new cup of cold tea. 

1:03:am 
Whatever this is 
come to me 
gradually curiosity 
now feels greater than 
my writer's grief. 

I want to see 
the outlines the specter is 
to write nothing when nothing's there 
no face 
no driven ideas 
no words span 
no creativity transformed or fixed.... 

1:33:am 
Hushed 
I lie down with it; 
exhausted on my bed of paradox-- 
it's experience embraced. 
I allow myself to be swept to the surrender 
of writing about the nothingness 
at my pen, now shaking. 

2:53am 
three drafts done and then; 
a small epiphany: 

Ample is experience 
such that no blank lines will ever reach 
or witness and this is all the artist needs. 

By this 
my last lines written 
after 2:53:am; 
from listlessness and nothing 
surrendering into expressions of same-- 
poetically-- 
creates the minor miracle;
this.