Lover’s Block

I do this:
I take a pen and write, or sometimes
hold it clenched and sweat
the dreams of all the poems yet unborn,
fetal specks of inspiration clinging to
the moist sides of my day to day
pulling at my insides
like a claw scratching its way
from an egg’s dark interior
damp and covered
with a caul that tastes of longing.

Shown dry and bristling for a cue
these words,
this plump idea,
fruited like a holiday cake
heavy with intention,
sketched in two
dimensions.

Never,
never say
I did not try
for you.