ON WRITING POETRY
Embracing chunks of life,
trying to convey the experience
in thin black words
on a cold white page,
failing
because
words can’t breathe,
won’t bleed
don’t whimper
in the dark.
They just lay there,
impotent fosils,
barren husks,
dropped spoor,
not the real thing at all,
not the rustle in the weeds
nor the shrill screech
of the wild boar.