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.