Some days my mind is not on writing, unfocussed
everywhere, maladroit, awkward with every word
like any truant child forced to do what she must
against her will and the will of the universe.
It’s not into page, paper, screen, longs for release;
vaults over every language, every verse and form
where white waters writhe on shorelines, far galaxies,
uncharted blazing white-hot stars throbbing in them.
Where the white dove sat on a fig once, intimate
the afternoon and small its wrap; she cooed her angst
and still it played out as a song, misconstrued yet
beautiful. Till the lightning unleashed white forked tongues
and lashed the branch on which she sat and it splintered.
She fell without a single sound, dead burnt white bird.