The blank page of the poet,
the painter’s blank canvas,
is by every person known:
it’s when nothing happens in your life,
it’s when you find yourself alone.
But life is calm that more life can happen.
You are a poet, at last.
You are a poet, now.
Poetry swims in your past.
The poet I was didn’t get it right.
I spoke black sentences in the night.
I wrote my poem too fast.
True poetry is memory,
not these words I write.
A life is a horse and a shadow—
inside a shadow fading from sight.
The poem is this—but that, that
calmer thought was right.