i want to say something good
like blood into a basin of stars
but i've stopped listening to myself
at least i think i have

i am rolling metaphors over & over
& something like a simile 
across the desk

i tie imagery into individual burlap sacks 
about to them drop into a well

when i feel something sharp in my back 
i put my hands up        off the keyboard 

behind me  collins smirks
neruda cries  
& milosz stares blankly past me